


The Betrothal Bargain

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Background Benny/Balthazar, Breeches and Banter, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Idiots in Love, Illustrated, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Jody/Mary, Romantic Comedy, SPN Regency Bang 2020, Switching, fake engagement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: Though they both move in the highest circles of London society, the Duke of Milton and Viscount Winchester have never met-- until the day of their best friends’ wedding. The spark of attraction between them is undeniable, but both are determined bachelors. When a second encounter leads to unexpected consequences, there is only one solution: they must pretend to be betrothed in order to avoid scandal, then quietly break the engagement once some new piece of gossip arises.In the meantime, they’ll have to play the part convincingly enough to fool all of London into believing in their romance. But somewhere along the way, the line between act and actuality becomes blurred, leaving them both wondering if this was the worst idea they’ve ever had-- or the best.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 117
Kudos: 447
Collections: SPN Regency Big Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader,
> 
> I hope this note finds you well.
> 
> It is with great joy that I present to you this tale, written as part of a marvelous new series known as the SPN Regency Bang. I would like to express my utmost gratitude and admiration to the organizers of this event for their efforts and enthusiasm. I would also like to introduce my most talented collaborator, the artist known as [NotFunnyDean](https://notfunnydean.tumblr.com/post/628429556177666048/art-masterpost-spn-regency-bb/), whose stunning artwork accompanies this romp. I am deeply indebted to him and to his commitment in bringing this story to life, as well as to my shrewd and supportive first reader, zaphodsgirl. 
> 
> I hope that this light-hearted tale brings you some comfort and contentment in these trying times. 
> 
> Yours,
> 
> superhoney

Dean Campbell, Viscount Winchester, first laid eyes on Castiel Allen, Duke of Milton, on the morning of the wedding.

They were both dressed in their finest outfits, Dean’s jacket fitted so closely to his shoulders and chest it clung like a second skin. Perhaps that explained the sudden shortness of breath he experienced when he met Milton’s brilliant blue eyes, perfectly complemented by his sapphire waistcoat. Milton gave him a polite but distant nod, his attention fixed more on the clergyman than on Dean. Managing a slight bow of his own, Dean dragged his gaze away from the firm cut of Milton’s jaw and towards the other two men standing at the front of the church. 

It was, after all, their wedding day, and Dean was here to act as witness, not to sneak surreptitious glances at the way Milton’s breeches hugged his powerful thighs.

The betrothal of the Earl of Silverton to Mr. Benjamin Lafitte had caused quite the stir among the ton. Silverton’s title was well-respected, but it was widely known that much of the money had run out due to the excesses of its previous holder. In his youth, Silverton had sown his own fair share of wild oats, but now approaching his mid-thirties and recently risen to the rank of earl, responsibility could no longer be ignored. He needed a spouse, and a rich one at that.

Benny’s family had amassed a fortune in trade, and while he had been educated as a gentleman, he had no true claim to the name. Marriage to Silverton would give him that.

Truly, it was a perfect match, or what passed for one in their mercenary society. 

Dean only hoped his friend would not come to regret this decision. He had counseled Benny against it, with the honesty only a friend of many years could risk, and been met with Benny’s resigned shrug. “Love is a luxury even I cannot afford,” he’d said.

Watching him now, Dean saw traces of that same resignation. Benny’s face was calm and composed, no sign of tension in his broad shoulders, but no trace of joy or even hope on his firm features. There ought to be something, Dean thought. Something more than this. For Heaven’s sake, it was his wedding day.

The ceremony was brief, and soon enough Benny and Silverton were exchanging rings. Dean studiously kept his gaze on the newlyweds rather than on Milton as they were escorted to the vestry to sign the register. Milton’s signature was strong, without flourish or excess, and as he passed the quill pen to Dean, their fingers brushed lightly together.

Dean pulled back as if scalded, and Milton’s eyes flicked up to his. Lord, they were truly blue, not the sort of hazy grey that was often called blue. Feeling a faint flush rise in his cheeks, Dean took the pen and signed the register, all too aware of Milton's curious gaze.

It didn’t escape his attention that the newly-wed couple had scarcely exchanged a single word. The formalities concluded, Benny inclined his head towards Dean and said, “Thank you for being here today.”

“Of course,” Dean replied swiftly. “And may I be the first to offer my congratulations?” He turned and made a brief bow to Silverton. “To you as well.”

“I’d prefer if you’d offer a drink,” Silverton muttered. With a heavy sigh, he extended his arm to Benny. “Shall we, husband?”

Benny’s lips tightened, but he took the proffered arm and shot Dean a warning glance over his shoulder. Dean bit back the harsh reply that had been forming on his lips and fumed silently as Benny and Silverton exited the church, the well-wishers outside breaking into a chorus of congratulatory shouts.

Unfortunately, this left Dean standing with Milton, a man to whom he had never been formally introduced, several ranks above him in station and notoriously taciturn. He hadn’t even come to town for the betrothal ball, choosing to only attend the ceremony itself despite his closeness to Silverton. Based on his very limited interactions with them, Dean had a difficult time imagining the two of them as friends.

Milton cleared his throat and glanced sidelong at Dean. “A lovely ceremony,” he remarked.

Dean couldn’t stop himself from grimacing. “Not the word I would use, Your Grace.”

“No?” Milton raised one dark eyebrow. There was something incredibly _ducal_ about the gesture. “What word would you use, then, Winchester?”

Hesitating, Dean scanned their surroundings. There was no one within earshot, and from what Benny had told him, Milton would be returning to his sprawling country estate (or one of them) within the next few days. Besides, weren’t dukes above such petty things as gossip?

“I might have said loveless,” he replied. 

“Ah.” A strange expression crossed Milton’s face. “You’re a romantic.”

“I merely--” Dean stopped, shaking his head. This was entirely too personal a conversation to be having with a man with whom he had the barest acquaintance. “I worry for my friend’s happiness,” he said eventually.

At that, Milton nodded gravely. “As do I.”

Dean frowned. “It seems all Silverton cares about is his next drink. Provide him with that, and he ought to be well content.”

Drawing himself upright, Milton fixed Dean with a stern glare. He was a few inches shorter, Dean couldn’t help but notice, but with the athletic build of a man who rode frequently and spent his share of time in the boxing ring. And of course, there was that ducal presence, the commanding air of a man who had been titled from birth and treated accordingly ever since.

Viscount or not, Dean quailed slightly under the force of that stormy gaze.

“It would serve you well not to judge a man by one single comment,” he said, all haughty reprimand. “Balthazar has not had an easy time of it, and he is a proud man. Everyone knows why he and Mr. Lafitte entered this match, and it must be extremely galling for a man of his temperament to suffer those whispers.” He set his jaw firmly, eyes challenging. “I suggest you do not add to them.”

A number of possible responses flashed through Dean’s mind. If the marriage was indeed so embarrassing for Silverton, how must it feel for Benny, knowing he was only valued for his wealth? What were people whispering about him, and did Silverton give a fig about his reactions? 

Something stopped him from letting loose with an angry retort. Not the difference in their ranks-- while Milton could employ his influence to devastating effect, it was well-matched by Dean’s reckless disregard for propriety when those he cared about were involved-- but the very real emotion that flared in his eyes during that thorough set-down. 

If Silverton could inspire that sort of loyalty in Milton, perhaps there was more to the man than met the eye.

Inclining his head in acknowledgment of Milton’s remarks, Dean summoned a small smile. “Am I to be called out, sir? I would hate to disrupt Mr. Lafitte’s wedding breakfast to ask him to serve as my second.”

It was a calculated risk, jesting with him that way when he had given little evidence of humour thus far. Milton blinked at him, clearly startled by Dean’s wry tone, and then a slow, knee-weakening grin spread across his face.

Good Lord, the man was handsome. A pity he kept himself locked away in the country for most of the year. He would make a fine addition to the gardens and ballrooms of London, glittering even amongst the most celebrated beauties of the Season. 

“Not yet,” Milton replied. “Though I ought to warn you, I’m a fair shot.”

Examining the breadth of his shoulders and the size and strength of his hands, Dean had no doubts about the veracity of that statement. “A shame,” he said breezily. “I, on the other hand, am an excellent shot.”

Milton choked back a laugh. “Such modesty.”

Dean shrugged. “Unlike you, sir, my title is a recent acquisition. I have yet to learn all the behaviours dictated by my rank.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. “I do know, however, that it would be most unbecoming for the two witnesses and closest friends of the newly-wedded couple to be late for the wedding breakfast.”

Lips twitching, Milton inclined his head gravely. “Indeed. I shall see you there, then?”

“You shall.” Dean bowed briefly. “Your Grace.”

“Winchester.”

Milton didn’t turn back as he exited the church and strode towards his waiting carriage, allowing Dean’s gaze to linger appreciatively on the figure he cut as he walked away. 

An intriguing man, Milton. He was much-talked about in town, of course-- enormously wealthy, reclusive, and a duke to boot-- but no mention of his inclinations had ever been made, or at least not in Dean’s hearing. 

This day was about Benny, though. Firmly pushing aside thoughts of Milton's well-shaped arse, Dean settled into his own carriage and gave the coachman direction to Silverton’s town house. He would see his friend through a likely awkward wedding breakfast, perhaps take the opportunity to draw Silverton into conversation and learn what sort of man he truly was, and soon enough, Milton would be safely ensconced in the country and swiftly forgotten.

***

Two hours later, Dean wondered if he had tempted fate by so strictly planning how the rest of his day would go. Sam would laugh at him if he knew, but as it was, his brother was seated at the far end of the table, invited through his connection to Dean rather than any real close relationship with either of the grooms. They hadn’t yet had the opportunity to exchange a word, which worked to Dean’s advantage-- Sam would immediately know there was something on Dean’s mind, and he had never been able to dissemble with his younger brother the way he did with so many others.

Seated to Benny’s left, Dean would be ideally placed to support his friend if not for the absolute bore who sat to his own left. Some relation of Silverton’s-- Dean hadn’t honestly paid attention to the connection-- he was a droning, self-important man, and for all his occasional disregard for social niceties, Dean could not risk embarrassing Benny by simply telling the man to be quiet. 

In addition to this unfair punishment, Milton was seated across from Dean and a few places over, making him perfectly positioned for Dean’s wandering eyes and attention. While Crofton prattled on beside him, Dean watched as Milton interacted with those around him. He was well-versed in the art of polite conversation, like any gentleman, but to Dean’s evaluating gaze, there was no real spark of interest in his eyes. 

He had often heard Milton described as a serious man, as befitted someone of his rank. Watching him now, Dean understood why that might be the impression he gave, but it did not entirely match the warm, amused grin that Milton had given him during their earlier conversation. More intrigued than ever, Dean caught Milton’s gaze and held it, then threw him a swift wink.

There was nothing overtly flirtatious in the gesture. Nothing that Dean couldn’t brush off as shared mischief if necessary. Eyes widening slightly, Milton ducked his head and gave his dining companions his full attention, but there was a telltale stain of pink across his sharp cheekbones. 

A solid leg brushed against his under the table, and Dean looked over to meet Benny’s clear blue gaze. “What trouble are you getting yourself into now, Winchester?” he asked, keeping his voice low. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Dean replied with perfect honesty. “What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into?”

Benny snorted and cast a swift look at his new husband. Silverton looked back at them both, eyes keen despite the lazy way his eyelids drooped over them, and raised his glass in their direction. “We both know what this marriage is,” Benny said. “And what it isn’t.”

A strange ache in his chest, Dean sighed. “You’re certain about this, then? It’s not too late to run away. Scotland, perhaps.”

“Are you discussing our honeymoon plans?” Silverton’s tone was light, but pitched to carry. “I had considered Scotland, but the weather is so unpredictable. I wouldn’t wish for an inauspicious start to this marriage.”

A burst of polite laughter rang from those within earshot. Benny smiled, but Dean saw it for the grimace it was. “We thought we would stay in town at least a little longer,” he said. “After all, the entertainments are just beginning, and we’ve accepted a number of invitations.”

“Not for tonight, of course,” Silverton said slyly, and while the other guests tittered with laughter again, Dean clenched his hands into tight fists beneath the table.

He truly did not understand what Milton saw in this man, and he cursed Benny for ever agreeing to this match. 

Rising abruptly, he murmured an excuse and strode away from the table. Fortunately, as the meal ended, many others were beginning to leave their seats and circulate around the room, so his sudden departure was less noticeable. He attempted to catch Sam’s eye, but his brother was deep in conversation with his friend Kevin Tran. 

A passing footman offered a tray of refreshments to Dean, and he gratefully accepted a cup of tea. Taking a fortifying sip, he saw Crofton approaching and quickly turned aside.

Right into Milton, whose firm hand on his arm was the only thing that kept Dean from stumbling. His tea, however, had no such support, and a few drops sloshed dangerously close to the perfect white of Milton’s shirt. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Dean said rapidly. How gauche of him. He set the tea down on a nearby table and clasped his hands behind his back, hoping he wasn’t about to receive another stern lecture on proper gentlemanly behaviour. This time, he thought he might even deserve it.

But Milton waved a dismissive hand in the air. “No harm done.” He narrowed his eyes at Dean, then glanced towards Crofton, who had halted his approach at the sight of him. “I can’t blame you for fleeing from Crofton.”

“You know him?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Milton gave a discreet shudder and pursed his lips. “I’m sorry you had to endure his prattling for that entire meal.”

“It looked as though you were enduring some trials of your own.”

Milton’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “I am rather out of practice at social interaction. I don’t receive many visitors at Rexford Park, and it has been some time since I’ve come to town.”

“You must be eager to return home, then.” 

“I am,” Milton admitted. He ran one hand through his hair, leaving it attractively dishevelled. “My mother and sisters will be disappointed, but I told them I never planned to stay more than two days. I believe they thought they could convince me otherwise, but if I cannot use my vast consequence to be firm with my own family, what good is it?”

Dean laughed, imagining the frosty air of authority Milton would have adopted in informing his family of his plans. “And until then? Have you also accepted invitations to the Season’s entertainments?”

Milton shook his head, a look of distaste crossing his handsome features. “I was spared the effort of having to decline them by virtue of never receiving them in the first place. I informed few of society’s hosts and hostesses of my plans to be here, and they have learned from experience that their invitations are unwelcome at Rexford.”

“Ah.” Dean fought down a surge of unwarranted disappointment. Had he not hoped for Milton’s quiet removal to the country? “So you will not be in attendance at Lady Talbot’s ball this evening.”

“No,” Milton said slowly. His dark lashes lowered over his eyes, then lifted again as he tilted his head to the side, studying Dean intently. “As I said, I wasn’t invited.”

Dean couldn’t stop an undignified snort escaping him. “You’re the Duke of Milton. I hardly think you need an invitation.”

That commanding eyebrow raised again. “And so I ought to rely on the importance of my name to grant me access where my presence was not requested?”

Dean sighed and waved an airy hand before him. “I simply meant that were you to arrive, especially accompanied by an invited guest, Lady Talbot would be beside herself at the thought of being the only hostess in London to entice the elusive Duke of Milton to her rout. She would crow about her triumph for the rest of the Season.”

Milton’s face remained still, but there was a sudden spark of amusement in the depth of his eyes. “Are you suggesting I accompany you?”

Dean shrugged, a casual gesture that did not at all match the way his heart raced in his chest. “Perhaps.”

“I see.” Milton considered him for a long, breathless minute, then nodded firmly. “I will give the matter some thought. But do not wait for me.”

With a pointed sniff, Dean made a show of inspecting his nails. “Hardly. I doubt I would even have space for you on my card, should you choose to attend.”

Milton’s large hand closed around his elbow, his grip loose, but the warmth of it burned right through Dean’s expensive jacket. “I rather think you’ll make room, Winchester.”

All the blood in Dean’s body rushed south at the low growl of his voice. Sweet Heaven, the way his name sounded on those lips--

Before Dean could gather his composure to reply, Milton withdrew his hand and stepped back. Picking up Dean’s abandoned cup of tea, he passed it back to him and said, “You look as though you could use this,” and strode off.

Dean drained the rest of the tea in one gulp, wondering how on earth he was going to survive his torturous anticipation of the evening to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief as the footman took his hat and gloves. “Is Her Grace at home?” he inquired.

The footman-- Castiel made a mental note to ask his name-- bowed and nodded. “She is, along with Lady Bellmore and the young ladies. You will find them in the drawing room, Your Grace.”

“Excellent.” Castiel sailed forth up the stairs, feeling the weight of the day drop from his shoulders as he climbed. 

God, he hated London. Not the city itself, so to speak-- there were a number of things he liked about it, from the history to the theatre-- but the _people_. So many people, and all of them wishing to speak to the Duke of Milton. 

Another footman hastily opened the door of the drawing room so Castiel could stride in. His mother looked up, a faint frown crossing her features. “Back so soon? I thought surely you would have taken the opportunity to avail yourself of some of the entertainments of the city after so long away.”

“Mama, Castiel cares nothing for such entertainments.” Hael rolled her eyes at their mother. “I, on the other hand, have been waiting all afternoon for someone to call, and been sorely disappointed. I was so hoping those footsteps belonged to someone else.”

Castiel knew well enough not to take his sister’s teasing to heart, but a faint feeling of guilt did settle in his chest at her words. He had no desire to take his sisters for a drive in the park, but he had not seen them in some time, and if Hael were truly so bored--

“Hush,” Hannah said, glancing between Castiel and her twin. “We’ll have plenty of entertainment at Lady Talbot’s ball tonight, and if you go out now and turn yourself pink in the sunshine, you’ll spoil your complexion.”

Castiel bit back a smile at the look of dismay that crossed Hael’s face. Hannah always was the more sensible of the two, and she knew how to maneuver her twin in a way Castiel simply did not. He could act the fine lord with them, he knew, much as would be expected of the head of the family, but in truth, that sort of high-handedness had never appealed to him.

“You’re attending Lady Talbot’s ball?” he asked, taking a seat opposite the twins.

They both attempted to reply at once, but Anna’s cool voice rose over theirs. “We are,” she said. “We have a long-standing acquaintance, and she’s quite determined that I should be mingling among society again now that my year of mourning has ended.”

Castiel winced, as he always did when Anna made reference to her husband, who had passed some fourteen months ago. From what he knew, it had not been a love match, but it still could not have been easy for Anna, widowed at only twenty five years old. 

Across the room, their mother’s eyes sharpened. “We had arranged for Captain Easton to escort the girls, but if you wished to accompany them--”

Two sets of pleading eyes turned in his direction, and Anna lifted a hand to cover a smile. “Would you?” Hael asked. “Oh, Castiel, would you?”

It was mere coincidence. There were a number of gatherings hosted every evening, of course, but both Winchester and Castiel’s family moved in the highest circles. It was no surprise they would have accepted invitations to the same ball. If he went at Hael’s request, he could pretend he was led by his duty to his family and not his desire to see Winchester again.

He hadn’t known a great deal about him before today. He’d heard the name, of course-- there was some story there, an unexpected branch of the family inheriting-- but hadn’t bothered to pay closer attention. He never did. Until he looked up and met those laughing green eyes. 

Balthazar should have warned him. Then again, he didn’t think Balthazar had much interaction with his betrothed’s best friend prior to the wedding either. It was all very quick and perfunctory. 

Just as Castiel’s time in London was intended to be. He would not be here long, and so he ought to make the best of it-- which meant playing escort to his sisters and keeping a watchful eye on them. If he just so happened to claim that dance with Winchester along the way--

“You’ll have to be on your best behaviour tonight,” he said, looking down the length of his nose at the twins, Hael in particular. “None of this informal business. If you want me there to remind everyone you’re the sister of a duke, you’ll have to address me properly.”

“I will,” Hael breathed. She was practically trembling with excitement. Even Hannah’s normally composed face was lit with eagerness. “I’ll start practicing right now.”

Castiel glanced at Anna, who was looking on with amused resignation. “I refuse to be so gauche as to arrive uninvited. Will you impose on the strength of your friendship with Lady Talbot--”

“I’ll have a note sent around immediately,” Anna interrupted. She dipped her head respectfully, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes when she raised her head. “Milton.”

“Good Lord,” Castiel muttered, dropping his head into his hands. “What have I done?”

“You’ve made your sisters happy, and you’re finally taking your proper place in society,” his mother answered. “I should say you’ve done the right thing.”

Castiel managed a smile, which quickly turned to a gasp for air as Hael launched herself across the rooms to hug him. “Thank you,” she said, head buried against his chest as Hannah made outraged sounds from the other side of the room. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“Hmn.” Gently disentangling himself, he shook his head. “Best behaviour, you said.”

“Tonight, you said,” she shot back. 

He couldn’t help smiling at that. Hael was a handful, and he rather pitied whoever she ended up marrying, but he admired her spirit and the careless way she expressed it.

It reminded him somewhat of Winchester. 

A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine. He rose to his feet and nodded at his mother and sisters. “If I’m to be occupied this evening, I have some matters to discuss with Alfie before then.”

“Go on, then.” Anna waved him away. “We can’t have you embarrassing us by arriving dressed as the country squire you wish to be.”

Grimacing at her, Castiel turned sharply on his heel, the sound of Hael’s excited chatter cutting off abruptly as the footman closed the door behind him. 

Shaking his head, he made his way to his chamber and rang the bell for his valet. It appeared the Duke of Milton was to make an appearance this evening, and he would need to be suitably attired.

If he wished to look his best for other reasons, well, that was no one’s business but his own.

***

They were late, as was fashionable, but of course, so was everyone else. Castiel found himself yawning before they even exited the carriage. He was used to keeping country hours, and bewildered at the way his sisters seemed not to notice the lateness of the hour.

Then again, the twins had youthful enthusiasm on their side, and Anna had long years of experience attending balls just like this.

Castiel only had a long-neglected obligation to his family and a faint hope of a dance with a handsome man. It would have to suffice. His attendance would bring Lady Talbot a great deal of respect, but if he were to be caught yawning or looking more than fashionably bored, her reputation as a hostess would be utterly destroyed.

Sometimes Castiel wished one could simply turn down an inherited title. Anna would have made an excellent Duchess of Milton, but she was the second child, and so the title, along with all of its expectations and responsibilities, was his.

Straightening his shoulders as best he could in his perfectly-tailored coat, he extended his arm to Anna as she descended from the carriage. Hael and Hannah followed behind, and they joined the crush of people waiting to enter the ballroom.

Their hostess was waiting for them, impeccably but daringly dressed in a gold satin evening gown cut quite low at the bosom. “Your Grace,” she said, making him a low curtsey. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when Anna’s note arrived this afternoon. You honour us with your presence.”

Castiel bowed politely over her hand and managed what he hoped was a gracious smile. “The honour is mine, Lady Talbot.”

Lord Talbot, who was at least twenty years her senior, mumbled the correct niceties but didn’t blink at Castiel’s presence, for which he was grateful. Anna lingered to speak with her friend, waving Castiel aside, so he took Hael on one arm and Hannah on the other as they entered the ballroom proper. 

Hael let loose a dreamy sigh. “Oh, it’s wonderful.”

Castiel was disinclined to agree, but he supposed to someone in Hael’s position, the crowd of well-dressed revelers might seem appealing. “Quite,” he said.

“Everyone is looking at us,” Hannah whispered. “My goodness, Castiel, is this what always happens when you walk into a room?”

“I’m sure they are admiring how lovely the two of you look tonight. Nothing more,” Castiel said firmly. 

Hannah squeezed his arm gently. “Dear brother,” she replied, shaking her head, “I hate to contradict the ducal opinion, but I do believe you’ve never been more wrong in your life.”

Looking around the room, Castiel caught several interested glances, but no one seemed bold enough to approach. Sighing, he glanced between his sisters. “Is there anyone you wish to speak to? A particular friend?”

“Miss Turner is here with her grandmother,” Hannah answered. “She’s very polite. She won’t frighten you.”

Castiel opened his mouth, then shut it again. It wouldn’t do to be seen arguing with his sister, and they both knew it. “Very well, then. Present me to your Miss Turner.”

She was indeed polite, and very pretty. The elderly Mrs. Moseley, her grandmother, had shrewd dark eyes that swept curiously over Castiel and left him feeling oddly exposed, but she made the proper greetings and kept mostly quiet as the younger ladies chatted. 

A few of their mutual acquaintances drifted over to join them, and soon Castiel was caught in exactly the sort of mundane conversation he hated but was forced to excel at. It was a skill all those of noble birth learned early on, and despite his years in the country, it had never truly left him.

He only hoped his dancing ability would remain with him as well. Seeing Anna’s bright head moving towards him, he gracefully excused himself from his conversation and met her halfway. “You’ll lead me out in the first set,” she said. It sounded more like an order than a request, but honestly, Castiel was grateful to leave the matter in her hands. “Both Hannah and Hael have secured partners, and respectable ones, but they may prevail upon you later in the evening.”

“Of course.” The musicians were taking their places, and he could see Lord and Lady Talbot moving through the crowd to begin the dancing. Drawing in a deep breath, he offered Anna his hand. “Shall we?”

Favouring him with a bright smile, she permitted herself to be led towards the floor. “We shall.”

Anna was an excellent partner, light and graceful on her feet, and to his great relief, Castiel’s body remembered the forms perfectly. Though he kept his attention mainly on his sister and her light conversation, he could feel the weight of many eyes on his back as they danced. If anyone had somehow missed the whispered announcement that the Duke of Milton was in attendance tonight, they now knew.

Of course, this meant that as Castiel bowed over Anna’s hand at the end of the set, a small crowd of hopefuls had gathered at the edge of the room. Of course, none of them were quite bold enough to solicit a dance-- no, they only presented themselves and hoped he would grant them the dubious honour of his company.

There was only one person Castiel truly wished to dance with, and he had not yet seen Winchester’s broad-shouldered form among the guests.

He made polite conversation through dances with Miss Turner, several other friends of Hael and Hannah’s, and a rather charming young gentleman by the name of Banes, but by the time the supper dance arrived, Castiel despaired of ever finding Winchester in this crush. Perhaps he had changed his mind. Perhaps some terrible tragedy had befallen him, preventing him from attending. But Castiel knew he had not been imagining the spark of attraction between them, the flirtatiousness in Winchester’s tone. It seemed he did things in his own way, in his own time, and as much as Castiel disliked filling his time with these silly young folk, he rather admired the novel experience of someone else having the upper hand.

Anna saved him again by claiming the supper dance for herself, though she tore herself away from the attentions of a very attractive dark-haired lady in order to do so. “I owe you a debt,” Castiel told her quite seriously as he filled her plate.

“And I will not hesitate to collect,” she informed him with a smile.

After supper, which Castiel mostly passed nodding in agreement and making a few neutral remarks with what he hoped was proper dignity, he danced one more set with a young lady whose name he immediately forgot and then made his escape. The French doors stood open, beckoning guests onto the balconies for some fresh air, and Castiel managed to extricate himself from his admirers, though not without difficulty.

Leaning over the stone balustrade, he took a deep breath. The air of London was nowhere as clear and refreshing as that of Rexford, but it was a great deal better than that warm, perfume-scented ballroom. Closing his eyes, Castiel imagined himself back at home, in the library he had filled with his favourite books and furnished to his exact taste. Only one more day, and he could return.

A slight whisper of cloth alerted him to another’s presence, and he scrambled upright as he opened his eyes to see Viscount Winchester watching him, an amused look on his face.

“I thought perhaps you’d taken ill,” Castiel blurted out, then immediately regretted it. He’d all but admitted he’d been looking for him the entire evening, and judging by the way Winchester smiled, he was thrilled with that knowledge.

“I arrived late even by fashionable standards, and have been occupied since,” Winchester replied. “I did tell you I might not have space for you on my card.”

Slowly, Castiel raised one eyebrow. It was an expression that never failed to set people scurrying to do his bidding. “And yet here you are. Have you abandoned your partner to seek me out? That’s quite ungallant of you.”

Winchester laughed, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down Castiel’s spine. “No,” he said, but offered no further explanation. 

Stepping forward, he joined Castiel at the balustrade. The spill of light from the ballroom cast intriguing shadows over the lines of his cheeks and lips, and he looked quite devastatingly handsome in his black and white evening clothes. Gazing out over the gardens, he didn’t bother to turn his head to look at Castiel as he said, “Did you come here just for me?”

Castiel stiffened, but quite deliberately adopted a careless tone. “My sisters begged me to accompany them, and as I don’t see them often…”

“Ah.” Winchester did turn, then, revealing a lopsided smile. “Lady Hael and Lady Hannah are quite the celebrated beauties. It’s likely a good thing you’re here to keep an eye on all the young things lining up to dance with them.”

Castiel groaned. “They’re clever enough to handle themselves. But good God, the shallowness of it all. They’re all so desperately vying for favour or attention.”

“Welcome to London at the height of the Season,” Winchester said drily. “The Great Marriage Mart.” A shadow passed over his face, but it cleared just as quickly as it appeared. “No young things to your liking, then?”

“I’m in no rush to marry,” Castiel answered. “Despite my mother’s hints that she should like to see the succession assured. Thirty-two is not so old for a man to still be unwed.”

“No,” Winchester agreed. “But you are a duke, after all. I’m a mere viscount, and about to turn twenty-nine, and the rumblings have already begun.”

They exchanged glances of pure commiseration. “Do I dare to assume this means you won’t be extending your visit to London?” Winchester asked.

Castiel grimaced at the thought. “No. I plan to leave the day after tomorrow. Soon enough, this will all be an amusing memory.”

“An amusing memory,” Winchester repeated slowly. He suddenly seemed much closer than he had been a moment ago, close enough for Castiel to catch a whiff of his cologne, something fresh and citrusy. “What an appealing concept. I find myself craving one of those myself.”

There was no mistaking the invitation. Winchester was close enough to touch, his eyes direct on Castiel’s, and the desire in them quite evident. It was an invitation, though-- Winchester made no move to touch Castiel himself, clearly waiting for his response.

Castiel licked his lips and saw Winchester’s gaze drop to them. “The windows--”

Winchester cursed under his breath. “I suppose I should thank you for being more discreet,” he said, stepping away to run one hand through his hair. He glanced down at the gardens, where a few torches flickered along the unoccupied paths. “But I note that was an objection to the locale rather than the event itself.”

“Yes,” Castiel said quietly. He had very little idea how to go about this-- charming men did not normally approach him on balconies with such suggestions-- but he was no gawky youth, either, and if Winchester was offering so plainly, he would accept in the same spirit. “I can’t do the things I wish to do to you in such close view of the ballroom.”

He heard the catch in Winchester’s breath. “You are marvelous when you’re on your dignity,” he said, heading for the flight of steps that led down into the garden, “but you’re an utter delight when you let it slip.”

“Then let us dispense with it entirely,” Castiel said, and tugged him down the steps with speed.

From there, it was a short distance to a secluded corner of the garden, outside the spill of light from the lanterns. Winchester was in his arms immediately, and there was one breathless moment when he tilted his face up and asked, “Yes?” before Castiel’s whispered affirmative was cut off by the press of his lips.

Winchester tasted of brandy and lemonade, his lips soft and full against Castiel’s. He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he wanted from life, and Castiel was more than happy to respond in kind. 

Winchester sighed as Castiel trailed his mouth over his cheekbones, his jaw, and down the side of his exquisite neck. “If I’d known they gave such excellent kissing instruction to all future dukes, I’d have started kissing them a lot sooner.”

Castiel laughed and nipped at the shell of his ear, delighted at the way it made him shiver. “Let us consider that. There’s Bemington, who’s quite a bit too old for this sort of thing. Rothwell is quite maddeningly in love with his husband, so I doubt you would have much luck there.”

“Ah, well.” Winchester shook his head in mock-regret, eyes gleaming. “I suppose you’ll do, then.”

That was a challenge if Castiel had ever heard one. Wrapping one arm around Winchester’s waist, he slid his hand down until it rested over the swell of his backside, pulling him close as he flicked his tongue against his lips. Moaning, Winchester pressed himself shamelessly against Castiel’s body, giving him no doubt as to his enjoyment of the proceedings.

So lost were they both, neither noticed the crunch of gravel under approaching footsteps. It wasn’t until they heard the startled gasp, the low oath, that Castiel wrenched his lips away from Winchester’s and met the eyes of Mr. Banes and an unknown gentleman.

“Oh, I say,” the nameless gentleman blustered, “I do believe this spot is occupied, Max.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Banes replied. He was looking at Castiel, not with dismay, but with something rather like admiration. “Carry on, gentlemen. We’ll find ourselves another secluded alcove.”

Castiel closed his eyes tightly as their footsteps faded. Still wrapped in his arms, Winchester had the audacity to laugh quietly to himself. “This amuses you, does it?”

“Our privacy being interrupted by a couple attempting to find some of their own?” Winchester grinned at him. “Yes, I dare say it does.”

Grumbling to himself, Castiel had to admit it could have been much worse. He doubted either Mr. Banes or his companion would mention the incident, and it was probably for the best that they were interrupted before either he or Winchester brought them down to the hard ground for something rather more involved than a kiss.

“Oh, come now.” Winchester placed his palms on either side of Castiel’s face and pulled him in for another kiss. “An amusing memory, we said. We’ve succeeded quite well, don’t you think?”

Sighing, Castiel surrendered to his kisses and his good humour. He would be returning to the country soon, where there were few opportunities for this sort of diversion, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Soon enough they were rocking together just as intensely as they had been prior to being interrupted, Winchester’s lips on Castiel’s throat and his hands nimbly working on the buttons of his waistcoat. Castiel’s own hands were discovering just how firm and rounded Winchester’s backside was under those breeches, his eyes closed in ecstasy--

Until they flew open at the sound of an outraged shout.

Lord Talbot, in all likelihood, did not intend to be so loud. But his exclamation of surprise drew others, and there was only so much adjusting of clothing and hands Castiel and Winchester had time to accomplish. 

They were well and truly caught this time, and from the looks and the whispers passing through the small crowd, their discretion could not be relied upon.

Any gentleman knew the rules for such situations. Along with the arts of dancing and conversation, Castiel had learned them early. Feeling the weight of his title more than ever, he slid a decorous arm around Winchester’s waist and said, voice only trembling slightly, “Lord Winchester has just agreed to be my husband. We would be delighted to accept your congratulations.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stared out the window at the grey clouds that hung heavy in the sky, perfectly suited to his mood. It was rather like a scene from one of those sentimental novels that had become popular recently, and he grimaced at the thought. As much as he enjoyed reading them from time to time, he had no desire to find himself a character in one.

And yet, that was precisely how he felt. That assignation in the gardens had seemed such a good idea at the time-- Milton was gorgeous and unattached and leaving London soon. And, most importantly, he returned Dean’s interest. For those few minutes they had spent in each other’s arms, everything had been perfect.

Now it was all ruined.

“He’ll come.” Sam’s voice startled Dean out of his reverie, and he turned to look at his younger brother, who was pacing around the room like a caged lion. “He has to.”

Dean drew himself up and scowled at Sam. “I’m not waiting for him like some lovesick youth.”

Sam raised one eloquent eyebrow, and Dean responded with a rude gesture that was surely unbecoming in a man of his rank.

He didn’t give a damn. 

After the initial flurry of surprise had passed, he and Milton had returned to the ballroom and danced the next set together. There was a polite smile on Milton’s face, but his shoulders were stiff under Dean’s hands, and they hadn’t spoken a single word to one another. The instant the music stopped, Milton had made him a perfectly correct bow and passed him to his next partner. By the time Dean was free, Milton had left.

Dean had passed a sleepless night fretting over what to do next. He could scarcely believe Milton had so baldly lied about them being betrothed, but then, it was only to be expected. If one were compromised, the only way to relieve the scandal was a betrothal. Even Dean, who frequently found the rigid dictates of polite society stifling, knew that Milton had done the right thing.

He just wished they’d had the chance to discuss the matter beforehand.

“Surely it isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be,” Sam continued. “Once the stamp of a betrothal is upon it, a sordid encounter suddenly becomes sweet. You’ll be the most popular couple of the Season, I’m certain of it.”

Dean sighed and dropped his head into his hands, muffling his voice. “But we aren’t a couple.”

“You are now.” There was a hint of an apology in Sam’s voice. “So you’d best start getting accustomed to the fact.”

Dean lowered his hands and shot his brother an unimpressed look. “He’s the Duke of Milton, for Heaven’s sake. No one would dare give him the cut direct. If he’d just given them all that frosty look of his, he could have sent them all packing and retired to his estate with no further consequences.”

“For him, perhaps,” Sam said softly. “You, I fear, would not be so fortunate. Have you considered how much protection he’s offered you?”

Of course he had. He’d been awake half the night cursing the man for his bloody noble-mindedness. Dean was all too aware that scandal could touch him in ways it would slide off Milton’s back, and that more than anything else had him bristling with resentment this morning.

A knock at the door brought Dean to his feet. “Excuse me, my lord,” Krissy murmured. “You have a visitor.”

Sam let out a strangled noise, and Dean raised a hand to cut him off while beckoning for the card with the other. He stared down at the creamy paper, the name spelled out in bold black letters.

“Is it him?” Sam asked.

“Of course it is,” Dean snapped. He ran a hand through his hair and nodded jerkily at Krissy. “Send him in, please.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bobbing a curtsey, she closed the door quietly behind herself, leaving Sam and Dean to stare blankly at one another. 

“Should I--” Sam gestured awkwardly at the door.

“No.” Dean shook his head. “Not yet. You may as well be presented to him.”

Sam’s face paled, but he tugged his overly long hair into some semblance of neatness and squared his shoulders. Dean, meanwhile, clasped his hands behind his back and tried to adopt a neutral expression, as though the Duke of Milton paying him a call were a perfectly ordinary occurrence. 

There was a polite tap on the door, and Milton entered.

He looked irritatingly fresh and proper. His cravat was perfectly tied, his coat elegant, and there were no shadows beneath his eyes. Nothing to indicate he had passed a night as sleepless as Dean’s. 

“Your Grace.” Dean made him a bow and waved Sam forward. “May I present my younger brother, Mr. Samuel Campbell.”

“Your Grace,” Sam murmured as he made his own bow. “An honour.”

“The honour is mine,” Milton replied, but his eyes were fixed on Dean’s. “If I might beg a private word with your brother?”

Sam glanced at Dean, clearly unwilling to deny the duke but wanting to stay for Dean’s sake. Dean gave a tiny shake of his head and jerked his chin towards the door. Sam nodded and made another brief bow before firmly shutting the door behind himself, leaving Dean alone with the duke.

“I trust I find you well?” he inquired.

Dean threw him a dark look as he settled into a chair and indicated that Milton should do the same. “May we dispense with the pleasantries? I don’t believe you’ve come here to ask about my health.”

Something flickered in Milton’s gaze as he took his seat. “No,” he agreed. “But I find myself rather at a loss as to what to say otherwise.”

Dean supposed that was fair. He shrugged, and a tense silence filled the room until Milton pushed abruptly to his feet and went to stand by the window, his back to Dean.

“I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly. 

The seed of resentment in Dean’s heart burst into full bloom. “For the kiss? Or for its consequences? Because, might I remind you, we were both quite active participants in the former.”

Milton’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t turn. “For my reaction when we were discovered.”

Dean sighed. “I cannot blame you for that. You did what any gentleman would do.”

“Quite.” Milton swung his head around to face Dean. He looked grim, and something heavy settled in Dean’s chest. “I will acquire a special license. We can be wed tomorrow.”

Dean heard the words as though through a strange fog. “Wed?” he repeated. 

Milton frowned. “Well, yes. That is what tends to follow a betrothal.”

“But we’re not even betrothed!” Dean burst out, rising to his feet. “We just--”

“Made a public declaration in full view of some of the most respected members of society,” Milton finished, jaw tight. “Please believe me, Lord Winchester, I have no intention of inflicting my company on you any more than I already have. We can be married, all veneer of civility restored, and I shall return to Rexford as planned. You will be free to carry on with your life here as desired.”

“Carry on with--” Dean nearly choked on the words. “Stop. Please. This cannot be the answer.”

Milton turned to face him fully. “There can be no other answer. Unless, of course, you wish to join me at Rexford. It’s large enough for the two of us to share it without much contact.”

None of his words made any sense to Dean at all. “Technically,” he said, drawing in a deep breath, “I have not yet agreed to marry you.”

Milton’s eyes widened, and he took a quick step forward before halting. “You--”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart as he did. “I have not agreed to marry you,” he repeated. “You have not even asked.”

Milton ran one hand through his hair, an expression somewhere between irritation and remorse on his face. “Very well. Everything about this is unorthodox, but I suppose you deserve the dignity--”

In an enviably fluid motion, he dropped to one knee. “Lord Winchester, would you do me the great honour of agreeing to be my husband?”

If this were truly a sensational novel, Dean would blush and smile and nod an acceptance. Instead, he stared open-mouthed at the sight of the eminently respectable Duke of Milton, kneeling before him (a position that would be rather appealing under less absurd circumstances) and said, “You must be out of your bloody mind.”

His words hung heavily in the air between them as a frown spread across Milton’s face and he climbed slowly back to his feet. “Winchester?”

“We only met yesterday,” Dean pointed out, completely failing to understand how any of this made sense to Milton. “We can’t marry tomorrow.”

Milton nodded pensively. “I see. We’ll have it spread about that we spent some months corresponding, perhaps regarding Lafitte and Balthazar’s wedding. And when we finally encountered one another, our feelings were realized. The matrons will be in raptures over it.”

“What? No. Milton, you don’t understand.” Dean took a step closer and inhaled deeply. “I don’t want to marry you.”

Milton blinked, and beneath his surprise, Dean thought he saw a flash of hurt, quickly disguised.

“Not to say that I don’t--” Dean made a frustrated sound.

Milton drew himself up stiffly. “I see. Quite acceptable for a kiss and a grope in the gardens, but not for any real commitment.” He laughed without humour. “There aren’t many who would turn down an offer from a duke. You truly are an original.”

“Would you listen to me for one moment!” Dean exclaimed. “I like you well enough. But I don’t know you nearly well enough to wed you. I--” He trailed off, the beginning of an embarrassed flush creeping onto his cheeks. “I have no wish to wed--”

After a long pause, something in Milton’s eyes softened. “Ah, yes,” he said quietly. “I had forgotten. You are a romantic.”

He said it without scorn, but with something closer to wonder. Like he could barely believe such a person existed. Dean held his head high despite his flush and said, “Yes. I have no desire to marry for anything less than love, which I recognize is an uncommon attitude among the upper classes, but”-- he shrugged-- “I am willing to be considered eccentric in this regard.”

Milton stared at him a moment longer, then dropped gracefully into the nearest chair. “I see,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I do indeed apologize for putting you in this situation, then.”

Dean sighed heavily as he took his own seat. “There is no need to apologize. It’s a damn mess we’ve both gotten ourselves into.”

If Milton was startled at his profanity, he didn’t show it. “Indeed,” he said instead. “And while I respect your position on marriage, truly, I simply cannot see how we have any other options left to us. Not without considerable damage to your good name.”

Dean’s lips tightened. “Yes. Mine, not yours.”

Milton had the good grace to look remorseful. “I am aware of the consequence granted to me by my rank. I would extend it to you if it were at all possible.”

Blowing out a deep breath, Dean propped his chin on his hand and considered the other man. He was attractive, undoubtedly, and young, and Dean had enjoyed the time he had spent in his company even when they had not been recklessly embracing. Would it be so bad, truly, to be married to him?

For most others in this position, the answer would be no. But Dean had grown up in a household that revolved around love, pure and simple, and seen the way his parents cherished every moment they spent together. He simply could not bring himself to settle for anything less. 

If he refused Milton now, the scandal would dog his heels for the rest of his life. In the event that he did find someone he loved, someone he wanted to spend his life with, could he subject them to that sort of damaged reputation? Would they even want to marry the notorious Viscount Winchester?

An idea crept slowly into his mind, the way a thief might enter a house without making a single sound. To be accepted in society, one required the appearance of civility-- after all, Benny had hardly changed a single thing about himself other than marrying Silverton, and now he would be received in places that would have snubbed him a month ago. It was the idea that mattered, far less than the reality.

“What if we could pretend?” Dean asked, raising his eyes to meet Milton’s. 

Milton frowned. “Pretend to be in love?”

“No. Well, yes, that might help with our story, but”-- Dean bit his lip-- “pretend to be betrothed?”

Frown deepening, Milton shook his head. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand.”

Dean rose to his feet, the idea solidifying in his mind. “You’ve already announced it informally. We make the proper announcement, but say we wish to hold the wedding later for”-- he waved one hand in the air-- “whatever reason. Family travel, more time to plan, our shared desire not to steal the attention from our recently married friends.”

“And then?”

“We quietly end the engagement after a few months. By then, someone else will have gotten themselves embroiled in a far juicier scandal. There will still be some talk, of course, but much less serious than it would be if we broke it off now.”

Milton opened his mouth, then shut it again. Dean could not interpret the look on his face, but he wasn’t immediately rejecting the suggestion, which gave him hope. 

“I suppose I would have to be the one to sever the engagement at that later date,” he said eventually. “My name would better withstand the consequences, and you would cut quite the tragic figure.” A faint smile flickered over his lips. “You would be free to marry of your own volition without undue damage to your reputation.”

A painful hope swelled in Dean’s chest, lodging heavily in his throat. It was a truly kind gesture that spoke to Milton’s understanding of both the situation and Dean’s own feelings, and it was as unexpected as it was welcome. “Yes,” he said. “That would mean a great deal to me.”

Milton bit his lip, sending a vivid memory of its pillowy softness through Dean’s mind. “Is there someone?” he asked carefully. “Someone you care for?”

“No,” Dean answered quickly. “Not at this time, no.” He suspected he knew Milton’s answer, but it only seemed fair to confirm it. “And you?”

A sad smile crossed Milton’s face. “No.”

Rising to his feet, he crossed the room. Slowly, holding Dean’s gaze, he reached out to take his hand. “This what you truly want?”

His touch sent an unexpected shiver down Dean’s spine. A memory of the way they had pressed so closely together surfaced in his mind, the way Milton’s body had felt against his. Looking up into those blue eyes, Dean nodded firmly. “Yes.”

Milton’s hand tightened on his for a second before he pulled away. “Well, then. We have a bargain. Ought we inform your brother of our happy news?”

Somehow, the idea hadn’t even occurred to Dean-- how many people they would be required to lie to. His hesitation must have shown in his face, because Milton’s eyes softened and he said, “Only if you wish. If you trust him to keep our secret--”

“No.” Dean shook his hand. “That is, I do trust him. Entirely, unreservedly. But if we are to make this work, we must convince everyone. And we may as well begin with Sam.”

“As you wish.” Dropping his hand, Milton took up a casual position by the window, face set in pleasant, pleased lines, the very picture of a man who had just become happily engaged.

His own hand trembling slightly, Dean rang the bell on the table. Krissy appeared almost instantly, and Dean gave her his best smile. “Would you send my brother to us, please? Thank you.”

Eyes wide, Krissy glanced at Milton before disappearing back into the hall. Dean cleared his throat and attempted to summon a smile that Sam would not immediately see through. His brother knew him better than anyone else in the world, and if they could make him believe this betrothal was real, they might just stand a chance of convincing everyone else.

There was the heavy sound of footsteps in the hall, and Sam came through the door, eyes alight with anticipation. “Dean,” he said, then turned to give Milton a respectful nod. “Your Grace.”

“Sam.” Squaring his shoulders, Dean smiled as brightly as he could. “It is likely being discussed all over town, but we wanted you to hear confirmation from us. The Duke of Milton has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.”

With a wordless shout, Sam swept Dean into a fierce embrace. “I told you it would all work out,” he whispered. “Dean, I’m so very happy for you.”

Dean leaned against his brother’s broad shoulder, grateful for the cover it provided. “Thank you,” he managed. 

Pulling back from the embrace, Sam cast a sheepish grin in Milton’s direction. “My apologies, sir. We are a rather close family, and we rarely stand on ceremony.”

“I’m charmed.” Crossing the room, Milton extended his hand to Sam. “And I shall be pleased to make your better acquaintance, Mr. Winchester. I promise to look after your brother, who I see is quite dear to you.”

“He is,” Sam agreed happily as he shook Milton’s hand. 

Dean watched them make polite conversation, his heart sinking in his chest. Sam looked as though he was fast becoming attached to Milton in the way he always did with his friends. It would hurt him, Dean knew, when the connection between them was inevitably severed.

But that day was some time ahead, and perhaps, once this entire arrangement had concluded, Dean could tell his brother the truth. Sam was nothing if not understanding, and would be sympathetic to Dean’s dilemma even if he might resent being duped. 

Truly, this was the best they could make of a difficult situation. Fixing his smile in place, Dean joined his brother and his temporary fiancé in their conversation, praying they had not just made the biggest mistake of their lives.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel took a deep breath as he pushed open the door to the drawing room. He had managed to avoid his mother and sisters all morning by locking himself in his study and giving orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed, and even Hael, for all her impulsiveness, would not dare defy a direct ducal command. But now that his business with Lord Winchester was concluded-- or at least decided-- he supposed he couldn’t put off his family’s questions forever.

His mother’s head snapped up immediately at the creak of the heavy wooden door. “Castiel,” she demanded, putting down her embroidery, “what is this your sisters have been telling me? About you and--”

Castiel held up a hand to cut her off. Across the room, Hael and Hannah watched with wide eyes. Anna looked on serenely, but Castiel thought he caught a glimmer of amusement on her face. At least one person found this situation entertaining.

“And my betrothed?” he finished smoothly. Entering the room fully, he leaned one elbow on the mantle and attempted a casual tone. “Yes, you heard correctly. Viscount Winchester has done me the great honour of agreeing to marry me.”

Hael let out a small shriek as his mother’s face paled. “It’s not that I object to the match--” she started.

“Why would you?” Hael said. “He’s only considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors.” She exchanged a twinkling look with Hannah, who Castiel was surprised to see flush slightly. “And he’s ever so handsome. You will have a flirt for a husband, though, Milton.”

Castiel’s grip on the mantle tightened. A flirt, was he? It shouldn’t have come as a surprise-- Winchester radiated charm-- but that even his young sisters knew of his reputation… well, Castiel began to wonder what might have happened had he not attended Lady Talbot’s ball. Would Winchester have found someone else to approach on a quiet balcony? Would Castiel be hearing news of their betrothal this morning? 

It hardly mattered. What was done was done. 

“They say former rakes make the most devoted spouses,” he said lightly.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call Lord Winchester a rake,” Anna put in thoughtfully. “For all his charm and fine words, I have never once heard a true scandal attach itself to his name.” She raised a pointed eyebrow, and Castiel felt himself flush. 

“Hmn.” Their mother picked up her embroidery again, but her eyes were on Castiel. “You’ll have the announcement put in the papers? And the banns read?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Winchester,” she said slowly, as though testing the sound of his name. “I know the current viscount, and that unreasonably tall brother of his-- but the parents?”

Somewhat to his embarrassment, Castiel shook his head. “I have only been introduced to Mr. Samuel Winchester.”

“Winchester grew up in Shropshire,” Anna put in. “His mother, Miss Mary Campbell, caused quite the stir some thirty years ago when she ran off with the innkeeper’s daughter. She was the old viscount’s youngest daughter, but he had hoped for a better match.”

Intrigued despite himself, Castiel leaned forward. “And how did the current viscount come to inherit?”

A shadow passed over Anna’s face. “Both Miss Mary’s older siblings died young. And neither of them had any surviving children. She passed on a few years ago, before the last viscount, so upon his death--”

Castiel left his post at the mantle and crossed the room to lay a steadying hand on his sister’s shoulder. “How tragic.”

She looked up at him, eyes dark with grief. “And unfortunately common.”

“Well,” their mother said briskly, interrupting the moment of sibling closeness, “we will have to pay some sort of call on them. Winchester can write to his remaining mother and invite her to town for the ball, of course.”

Castiel’s head shot up in surprise. “The ball?” he repeated blankly.

“Well, of course,” Hannah said. “Your betrothal ball? It’s an enormously consequential thing, the betrothal of the Duke of Milton. It must be marked with proper significance.” She frowned at him, a faint line appearing between her brows. “Anything less would be--”

“Shameful,” Anna concluded. The amused look had returned to her face, and Castiel was grateful for it. “Havey-cavey.”

“Of course.” Castiel sighed, feeling the beginning of a headache throbbing at his temples. “I suppose you don’t need me to contribute an opinion on any aspect of it, do you?”

“Not at all,” his mother said, and flapped her hand at him, effectively dismissing him from the room as his sisters leaned forward eagerly. “Now. We’ll need to pick a date, and arrange for the flowers--”

His presence, Castiel concluded, was no longer necessary. Making a brief bow that no one saw or acknowledged, he left the drawing room for his own study and rang the bell to summon Alfie. It appeared as though his travel plans, like so many other things, had changed.

***

The next day, Castiel woke to a beautiful spring morning, the sunshine streaming softly through the arched windows of his bedroom as Alfie drew back the curtains. He sighed as he sat up in bed. It would have been the perfect day for the trip back to Rexford.

Instead, he supposed, it would be a lovely day to take his betrothed for a drive in Hyde Park. 

His mother and sisters were still asleep, unaccustomed to Castiel’s country habit of rising so early, so he breakfasted alone. Afterward, he passed a few hours writing to his neighbours at Rexford, informing them of the change in his plans and suggesting they might reach him here in London for the foreseeable future. He also drafted a letter to his steward, ensuring the house and park would be well-kept in his absence. 

The morning passed quickly enough, and after a light meal during which his mother and sisters excitedly continued their plans for his betrothal ball while Castiel made supportive noises as necessary, he left Milton House on foot.

Careful inquiries to Alfie had yielded valuable information: Viscount Winchester was accounted one of the best drivers in London, and his smart curricle and matched bays were the envy of many gentlemen. Armed with this knowledge, Castiel had no qualms about his own lack of fashionable conveyance. It did not surprise him in the least that Winchester enjoyed driving, and that he would make himself look good while doing so.

The footman who took his card at Winchester’s neat home was deferential enough, but Castiel caught the intrigued look in his eye as he ushered Castiel into the hall. He hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to his surroundings on his previous visit, being rather distracted by the task at hand, but now he examined the furnishings and decor with great interest. It was clearly the home of two young bachelors-- well, perhaps that term no longer applied to at least one of them-- but beautifully kept and quite elegant in its way. 

He was in the middle of peering at a lovely family portrait when the sound of boots clattering on the floor alerted him to another’s presence. Neatly folding his arms behind his back, Castiel turned to face his betrothed.

“Hello,” Winchester said. If there was little trace of the flirtatious manner that had characterized their first encounters, there was equally little trace of frustration or resentment in his tone. 

“Hello,” Castiel replied, suddenly tentative. They were alone, so far as he could tell, and he had no idea how to act under the circumstances. Stepping forward, he made a brief bow. “I came to see if you fancied taking me for a drive in the park.”

Winchester nodded slowly, his gaze travelling over Castiel’s smart grey coat and perfectly-polished Hessian boots. “That sounds pleasant.”

“It will give us an opportunity to become better-acquainted,” Castiel said, and hoped Winchester understood his meaning. It would do just that, but it would also lend credence to their temporary arrangement. Hyde Park was the fashionable place to see and be seen, and on such a beautiful day, it would be crowded with others taking advantage of the weather. 

“Of course.” Winchester nodded, his eyes brightening. “You said you wished me to drive?”

Castiel shrugged. “I understand you have quite the reputation, and I was not expecting to be in London long enough to bring my own vehicle.”

Winchester’s jaw tightened, and Castiel winced. It would likely be for the best if he could avoid mentioning the fact that he had intended to be long gone by now.

After an awkward pause, Winchester recovered. “I never turn down an opportunity to demonstrate my skills,” he said with a wink. “Come along, then, Milton.”

Minutes later, Castiel was perched beside Winchester on the high seat of a beautifully-tended curricle. He snuck a quietly admiring glance at his companion, who held the ribbons in a casual manner that spoke to his supreme confidence. Winchester wore a dark blue coat and biscuit-coloured trousers, the very picture of a fashionable young man about town, and Castiel found himself wondering if they would ever have met had it not been for Balthazar and Mr. Lafitte’s wedding. He would certainly not have imagined them taking a turn about the park together.

“How is your family?” Winchester asked after a slight hesitation. “I have been presented to the Dowager Duchess, of course, but I don’t claim an extended acquaintance. Your sisters, however”-- a slight grin appeared on his face-- “have graciously danced with me on a number of occasions. An extraordinarily handsome family, if you’ll permit me to say.”

“Thank you,” Castiel replied automatically, before the words sunk in fully. Was he being called extraordinarily handsome as well? He supposed it ought to be no surprise that Winchester found him attractive, considering how they had gotten themselves into this situation, but--

Looking away to disguise his flush, he said, “Yes, they are all well, and quite thrilled at the news of our engagement. Well, the twins are. I’m not entirely sure how Anna-- Lady Bellmore, that is-- feels about anything.”

Winchester gave him a sidelong look, his eyes softening. “I have a slight acquaintance with Lady Bellmore through her late husband.” He cleared his throat. “How is she? A terrible thing, to lose him so young.”

“Yes,” Castiel said quietly. He felt himself flush further, but with shame rather than pleased confusion. “I wish I knew how she is. I have not been the brother I should have been to her. Or to the twins. I have hardly seen her at all, this past year, and while she seems composed enough now…”

He could feel Winchester’s eyes on him, attentive without being judgmental. “I don’t know how to speak to her,” he admitted. “We were close, as children, but as the responsibilities grew and I went away to school--”

Holding the ribbons in one hand, Winchester gently laid the other on Castiel’s knee. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories.” He hesitated, then said, “You should speak to your sister, though.”

Castiel stiffened under Winchester’s hand, and he quickly withdrew it. “Forgive me,” Winchester said again, but this time there was an edge to his voice.

“I didn’t--” Castiel sighed, casting a quick glance around. They were nearing the park, but were thankfully out of earshot of any other carriages. “I did not object to”-- he waved his own hand in the general vicinity of his leg-- “that.”

A hint of the usual merriment returned to Winchester’s eyes. “No?”

“No,” Castiel said firmly. Then, dropping his voice low, he said, “After all, we are betrothed.”

Winchester burst into laughter, shoulders relaxing. “Oh, well done, Milton. Very well done indeed.” He edged closer on the seat, the strong muscles of his thigh not quite touching Castiel’s but close enough to feel the warmth that radiated from his body. “It was the conversation you objected to, then?”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted. “I am unaccustomed to sharing my thoughts so freely, and particularly when they concern the feelings of others. Is it my place to tell you how my sister is grieving?”

Winchester clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “An interesting philosophical exercise. I did ask, so perhaps I am in the wrong here, but it is considered polite to inquire after the health and well-being of one’s future family, is it not?” He grinned. “I bow to your superior knowledge on these matters, being so much more elevated than myself.”

Castiel frowned. Winchester was clearly teasing, but-- “You know I don’t view you as anything less than an equal?”

“No?” Winchester threw him a surprised look. “I did not know that.”

Struggling for the right words, Castiel was silent for a moment. “I am aware of my own consequence,” he said eventually, “which I have done nothing to earn except be born to the former Duke of Milton, and be first-born at that. If that consequence can be used to help others”-- he snuck a glance at Winchester, whose face betrayed no emotion, and lowered his voice-- “as when we plan to end the engagement, then I am glad of it. And I am glad it means my sisters will be comfortable all their lives, and that they have some power to choose a match that suits them rather than having to take the family’s situation into account.”

A muscle jumped in Winchester’s jaw. “As Silverton did.”

Castiel winced. “Yes.”

He could feel the tension in Winchester’s body, sitting as close as they were. “How do you suppose that’s going?” he asked. “I ought to pay a call on Benny, but there’s been so much happening--”

“To put it mildly,” Castiel muttered under his breath. “I have not spoken to Balthazar, either.” He considered it for a moment. “Perhaps we could call on them together? They will have seen the announcement in the papers, of course, but it would lend a certain--”

“Authenticity?” Winchester supplied, nodding slowly. “Yes. Our two friends, at whose marriage we finally met face-to-face. Of course we would want to share the happy news with them, and soon.” He grimaced. “Though it wouldn’t provide me much of an opportunity to ask Benny how that husband of his is treating him.”

“That husband of his?” Castiel repeated. Even for one so charmingly casual, it was a breathtakingly rude way to refer to another gentleman. “You truly do not care for Lord Silverton, do you?”

Winchester opened his mouth, then closed it again, eyes hard. “He has given me little evidence to suggest he is anything other than an indolent spendthrift who cares only for his own happiness.”

Castiel felt a fierce rage simmering in his veins. “Men have been called out for less, you know.”

With a startled look, Winchester said, “I meant no offense--”

“I rather think you did.” Castiel leaned away, drawing his shoulders up stiffly. “As I believe I told you before, there is far more to Lord Silverton than meets the eye. I understand your concern for your own friend, Lord Winchester, but please do me the courtesy of remembering that I too have a responsibility to protect those I care for.”

Eyes wide, Winchester let out a slow whistle. “I am mightily rebuked,” he said, dipping his chin. 

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Castiel burst out. “Good God, man, you are going to find yourself slapped with a glove one of these days. You may be an excellent shot, but so might your opponent. You’re going to get yourself killed with this reckless attitude, and then I’ll be out of this mess.”

He cut himself short, blinking. What an appalling thing to say. But Winchester, far from being shocked, was looking at him with narrowed eyes and lips pressed tightly together.

“Yes, my death in a matter of honour would be one way out of this mess, as you so gracefully put it,” he sneered. “Or perhaps you could simply arrange for me to meet with a riding accident. I am, after all, so _reckless_ with this curricle when I race it. One slip of your hand now, and I could be dead in a ditch halfway between here and Shropshire.”

Drawing himself upright, Castiel prepared to make a scathing retort, but when he met Winchester’s eyes, flashing green and gold in the spring sunshine, the words died on his lips. Inhaling slowly, he began to laugh.

“Did you just suggest that I have you murdered?” he asked in between fits of laughter. “Winchester, you can’t go around just saying such things!”

Winchester’s lips twitched, the fight draining from his posture. “I really don’t make a habit of it with anyone else,” he said.

Castiel raised one doubtful eyebrow. “Oh, so I am special?”

Something in Winchester’s face softened. “Yes,” he said quietly, “you are.” He shook his head, that crooked smile returning to his face. “If nothing else, our marriage will be a passionate one,” he said.

He surely knew what those words would do to Castiel, what sort of images they would provoke in his mind. Memories of Winchester’s body pressed along his, the feeling of faint stubble rasping over his jaw and throat, a gloriously firm backside under his hands. Speculation about what that backside would look like unclothed, how Winchester’s healthy tan would glow against crisp white bedsheets, how those smiling lips would look stretched around Castiel’s cock--

“You,” he said severely, “are a very bad man.”

And Winchester had the audacity to laugh, throwing his head back and exposing the gorgeous line of his throat. Christ, Castiel wanted him. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat and glanced furtively around. They were approaching a far more crowded section of the park, and Winchester was making no effort to restrain his merriment. They were drawing a number of curious looks already.

“Well,” he sighed, “we can’t escape anyone’s attention now. I suppose I ought to be satisfied.”

“Indeed.” His laughter subsiding, Winchester took the ribbons in one hand again, placing the other on the seat between them. He made no move to take Castiel’s hand, but he gave him a quick look from under his lashes, betraying the first hint of nerves Castiel had seen from him all afternoon.

Slowly, Castiel inched closer, letting his own hand come to rest beside Winchester’s. Not quite touching, but close enough that any jolt to the curricle might bring their fingers into contact.

“There,” Winchester murmured. “Now let them talk.”

He had courage, if nothing else. And a great deal of dedication to this farce of an engagement. Castiel owed him the same. 

Straightening his shoulders, he gave Winchester his full attention. “We rather diverted ourselves from our original conversation,” he said, “but were we to retrace our steps, I believe it would be my turn to ask after your family.”

Winchester gave him an approving nod. “Such perfect courtesy.”

“I understand your title came through your mother’s line? But she herself--” Castiel cut himself off abruptly. “I do apologize if this is rather personal, but we ought to know these things about one another.” At Winchester’s raised eyebrow, he hastily added, “For the sake of authenticity.”

“Of course,” Winchester replied. “I’m merely surprised you don’t already know the story.”

“I spend most of my time in the country,” Castiel said apologetically. “And don’t often pay much attention to society gossip.”

“Ah.” Throwing him another grin, Winchester settled back against the seat. “Well, then, let me tell you the grand story of how my mother, Miss Mary Campbell, youngest child of the last Viscount Winchester, ran away to marry an innkeeper’s daughter.”

He had a pleasant voice for storytelling, and a talent for immersing his audience in his tale. Soon enough, Castiel was swept away in the story, the warm sun shining brightly on his face, all his attention fixed on the man beside him as he told a story of improbable love and comfort. 

It was enough to make him forget just how different their own story was, and the reason they had taken this drive in the first place.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was at the window of the morning room, all his attention fixed on the street, carefully scrutinizing every carriage that clattered past Winchester House. Behind him, Sam paced nervously, hands folded behind his back. It was becoming a habit of his, Dean had noticed-- perhaps he ought to send him back to the country soon, where he would have more room to stretch those unnaturally long legs of his.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, catching sight of a familiar, slightly battered carriage turning onto the square. “She’s here!”

Letting out a whoop, Sam clattered out of the room, Dean hot on his heels. He caught the exasperated look on Bobby’s face as he passed him on the stairs and grinned in response. “You have the best guest chamber prepared?”

“Yes, my lord.” Only Bobby could manage to make the courtesy sound like an insult. “All is ready for Mrs. Mills.”

“Excellent.” Clapping Bobby on the back, Dean hopped down the last three steps and followed Sam out the front door to greet their mother.

Jody was already swept up in Sam’s embrace, laughing as he lifted her clear off the ground and spun her around in a circle. “Put her down, Sam,” Dean instructed, but he laughed as he said it. “You’ll cause a scene.”

“As if the two of you don’t do that every day,” Jody replied, pressing a hand to her chest to catch her breath as Sam set her back on her feet.

“Not every day!” Dean frowned in mock-offense. “Only every other day. But I suppose we can make an exception, considering the special circumstances of your arrival.”

Rolling her eyes, Jody beckoned him forward. “Come give your old mother a hug, you scamp.”

Dean bounded forward and wrapped her in his arms, inhaling the familiar scents of bread, woodsmoke, and fresh hay that always clung to her. The smell of comfort, and of home. “Thank you for coming,” he murmured against her shoulder. “I know you don’t particularly enjoy London.”

Pulling back, she kept her tight grip on his shoulders as her shrewd eyes travelled over his face. “My eldest son is getting married. I can suffer the stink of London for a few days.”

Dean smiled, though his heart truly wasn’t in it. There was so much pride in his mother’s eyes, the satisfied look of a woman who only wanted happiness for her children and was certain they were on the path towards it. It would break her heart when he and Milton ended their engagement, he knew, but surely she would understand in time.

“Come inside,” he said, taking her arm. “We’ll have tea sent up to the drawing room.”

Bobby met them inside, bowing as he caught sight of Jody. “Mrs. Mills,” he said, with far more respect in his voice than he ever had when addressing Dean. “Welcome to London. If there is anything you require--”

Jody favoured him with a bright smile, and Dean bit back a smile at the way the old butler’s face flushed. “Thank you, Robert,” she said. 

“Yes, thank you, Robert,” Dean echoed. “That will be all.”

Rolling his eyes at Dean, Bobby stepped back to let them climb the stairs. Dean was quite certain he would pay for his sarcasm later-- Bobby was as unusual a butler as he was an unusual viscount-- but for now, his attention was all on his mother.

Sam attempted to make polite inquiries about Jody’s journey, but she brushed them aside. “That’s far from the most interesting topic at hand, Sam.” Settling herself comfortably on the loveseat, she patted its arm and gave Dean a stern look. “Now. Tell me more about this duke of yours.”

Smiling at the predictability of it all, Dean perched on the arm of the loveseat and shrugged. “Well, he’s incredibly handsome, of course.”

“Of course,” Jody echoed. “You would settle for nothing less.”

Dean let that scathing comment on his character pass. “He’s young, as well. Only three years older than me. He prefers to spend most of the year in the country, but came to town for Benny’s wedding, and that was where we met.”

“But you had exchanged correspondences before?”

“Yes.” They had decided this was an important piece of the story they wove, giving it an air of romance that an interrupted embrace in the gardens could not. “Mostly regarding the wedding, but I found him dignified and charming even through those brief notes. When we first met, it was--”

He trailed off, searching for the right words. Jody leaned forward and laid a hand on his arm. “Like that, was it?” A soft smile stole over her face. “Just like your mother and I.”

Dean rather doubted that. Mary Campbell had sought shelter at the Red Lion Inn in the middle of a storm, taken one look at Jody Mills, and fallen in love on the spot. They were married only a month later. 

He and Milton-- yes, there had been an instant attraction. A chemistry that could not be ignored. But love? No. It was not that.

“Something like that,” he said quietly. 

Jody sighed. “I’m so happy for you, Dean. And I’m thrilled to meet him so soon.”

Dean forced a smile to his lips. “And his mother and sisters. He informs me they are quite beside themselves with anticipation.”

“How many sisters are there?”

Sam answered before Dean could, and they soon settled into a comfortable discussion of Milton’s family, which led to exchanging news of other friends and acquaintances both in London and in Shropshire. Listening to his mother and brother laugh and tease another, he felt the deep sense of contentment that came with being surrounded by his family. He only wished his other mother could be there with them. 

He glanced up at the portrait that hung over the mantle. Mary Campbell’s golden hair gleamed, the stiff pose demanded by fashion undermined by the mischievous curl of her lips. She had been younger than Dean was now when the portrait was painted.

He wondered what she would have to say, what advice she would give, if she knew what he had involved himself in.

Jody caught the direction of his gaze and reached up to squeeze his hand. “She would be so happy for you,” she said. “I’m certain she would find it all a great amusement, that she ran away from her life of luxury and you not only inherited the title, but married into an even higher position.”

At that, Dean laughed despite himself. “She would,” he agreed. “And she would hate having to come back to town and mingle with society once more, but she would hold her head high and dare them all to snub her despite her notoriety.”

Jody gave a satisfied nod. “I’m glad she passed that on to you boys.”

Forcing a smile to his face, Dean asked how the inn was faring in Jody’s absence, sending her into a long discussion of the newest maids and grooms she had hired. He listened absently, but his gaze continued to stray to his mother’s portrait. She had flouted convention at every turn, followed her heart and cared not a whit for what the gossips said about her.

No, Dean was nothing like her. If he were, he would never have suggested this sham of a betrothal.

***

The evening of his betrothal ball, Dean sat alone in his dressing room, having already dismissed his valet. His crisp black and white evening clothes fitted him to perfection, his hair was tousled in what he was assured was the most fashionable way, and he could find no imperfection in his appearance as he stared at himself in the looking glass.

Except, perhaps, some shadow in the depths of his gaze. 

He practiced a smile, then a wink. A charmed tilt of the head, a polite laugh and a louder, freer one. If any of the servants heard him, they would soon spread the word that his lordship had cracked under the pressure of his upcoming wedding. Sighing, he rose to his feet just as a light tap sounded on the door.

“Yes?” he called.

Jody poked her head around the door. “Are you decent?”

“Yes, Mother.” Resisting the urge to tug at his sleeves, he gestured to her to enter. “Not that you would care either way.”

“Of course not,” she agreed as she stepped into the room. “I am your mother, after all.”

Now that she was no longer hidden by the door, Dean took a moment to admire her appearance. She wore a gown of russet velvet, simply cut but perfectly fitted to the lines of her body. “You look beautiful,” he told her.

Scowling, she smoothed her hands over her skirt. “I’ll be glad to be back to my own aprons and rough dresses after all this is over.”

Catching her hand, Dean squeezed it gratefully. “I know. But nevertheless.”

Her eyes softened, and she reached up to pat his cheek with her free hand. “You look quite handsome yourself. But”-- she narrowed her eyes, examining him critically-- “something is missing.”

Letting go of his hand, she reached into her reticule and withdrew a small, glittering object. Reaching up, she fixed the pin to the centre of his cravat, then stepped back with a satisfied smile. “There. Perfect.”

Dean looked down, his breath catching in his throat. A single sparkling emerald surrounded by smaller diamonds winked up at him, reflecting the candlelight. “It’s lovely,” he said. “But where on earth did you--”

Jody smiled. “Don’t you recognize it?”

Eyes widening, Dean bit back a surprised noise. “Mother’s ring?”

The emerald and diamond ring had been one of the few pieces of fine jewelry Mary had kept from her life as a lady. She often wore it on a chain around her neck, her hands being busy with other matters while running the inn, and Dean remembered toying with it as a child, delighted by the way the gems caught the light.

“I had it made into a pin after she passed,” Jody said softly. “At her wish. She wanted you to have it upon your engagement.”

Dean drew in a steadying breath. He wished he could tell Jody the truth, tell her he didn’t deserve this gift. But instead, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek and simply said, “Thank you.”

“Enough of that,” she said briskly. “We can’t be late for your ball, can we?”

“I suppose not.” With a gallant bow, he offered her his arm, and they swept downstairs to meet Sam before directing the carriage to Milton House.

Conscious of the length of the guest list, they had departed early. They were still far from the first to arrive. Dean sprang down from the carriage and dismissed the waiting footman with a wave of his hand, stretching out his own to assist Jody down. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as she looked up at the imposingly large residence.

Sam gave her a supportive pat on the shoulder, exchanging a glance with Dean as he did. “There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said.

Jody snorted. “Nervous? Sam, what in heaven’s name do I have to be nervous about? I won’t embarrass you or your brother. I’m simply afraid I’ll have a boring evening.”

Dean shook his head as Sam laughed. “Really, Sam, you should have expected that.”

The line to enter moved swiftly, and soon enough, they were being announced. Dean’s eyes were immediately drawn to Milton, handsome and austere in his own elegant evening attire. His eyes brightened as he caught sight of Dean, and Dean couldn’t help smiling in response.

“Your Grace,” he murmured, making his bow to the Dowager Duchess and her daughters. “Ladies. May I have the honour of presenting my mother, Mrs. Jody Mills.”

Jody dipped an elegant curtsey. “Your Grace. You have a beautiful home.”

A surprised smile turned up the corner of the Dowager Duchess’ mouth. “Thank you, Mrs. Mills. Perhaps later, while the young people amuse themselves, I might offer you a tour.”

Dean caught Milton’s eye and bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Winchester.” Milton stretched out a hand, and Dean took it, feeling the warmth of his palm travel upward along his arm with a pleasant tingle. “Quite the spectacle, is it not?”

“Most flattering,” Dean agreed. 

He wanted to say more, to ask how Milton was feeling as their deception progressed. He gave no sign of any stress or nerves, but then, his composure was impressive. Unless Dean was insulting his friend.

Smiling to himself at the memory, Dean said, “It would not be polite for me to monopolize all your time, would it? You have guests to greet.”

“I do.” Was that a hint of regret in Milton’s voice. “But I shall come find you to open the dancing.”

Dean glanced to his side, where Sam and Jody were engaging Milton’s sisters in lively conversation about their gowns. Lowering his voice, he leaned in close and said, “I look forward to having an excuse to put my hands on you again.”

Milton flushed charmingly. Dean laughed, and with another brief bow, entered the ballroom proper.

He had never been the guest of honour at a ball before. There were a few early occasions, right after he inherited the title, that his presence caused quite a stir, but nothing like this. Every guest wished to speak to him, and soon enough he had his own line waiting to greet him, as though he were the host. Fortunately, Dean had a gift for making conversation that came from a childhood spent in the public room of his mothers’ inn, and he found himself greatly enjoying the process of acknowledging the guests’ well-wishes.

If there was a slightly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, knowing what he did about the truth of his engagement, he did not permit it to show on his face or in his voice.

He still had a line of guests to speak to, but he caught sight of the musicians taking their places at the far end of the ballroom. Politely excusing himself, he found Milton moving towards him with steady purpose, his intense gaze locked on Dean. 

“Shall we, my dear?” he murmured, holding out his hand.

Dean supposed he deserved it, after his parting words to Milton earlier. But hearing him say ‘my dear’ in that lowered tone, with his eyes heavy-lidded and that smouldering look on his face--

Well. Two could play that game. “Yes, of course.” As he reached to clasp Milton’s hand, he let his fingers trail across his wrist in a subtle caress and was rewarded with Milton’s quickly indrawn breath.

He felt the burn of Milton’s hand through the stiff fabric of his coat as they took their places for the opening dance. The music started, and while Dean was certain the Dowager Duchess would have arranged for the best musicians, he likely would not have noticed a missed note. All his attention was on his partner, who met his gaze steadily as they automatically moved through the steps. While they danced closer together than they might have were this not their betrothal ball, there was still too much distance between them for Dean’s liking. He could feel the strength and solidity of Milton’s shoulder under his hand, and he ached to pull him closer, to close the gap between them and press every inch of their bodies together.

Judging by the heat in Milton’s gaze, his thoughts were traveling a similar path.

The dance ended far too soon for Dean’s liking-- or perhaps just soon enough for his self-control. Bowing briefly, he smiled up at Milton. “Thank you for the dance. I do hope we’ll have the chance of another-- or is your card quite full?”

Milton’s face remained composed, but something flickered in his eyes. “We will have another,” he said, and it sounded like a promise. “Until then--” He lifted Dean’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. His lips lingered, not long enough to provoke comment, but long enough for the air to leave Dean’s lungs in a sharp rush. 

With that, he strolled off to find his next partner, leaving Dean both delighted and discomposed.

He had other obligations, but no matter his partner, he found his gaze straying to Milton. Fortunately, his partners chose to find his distraction sweet rather than insulting, those he knew better going so far as to tease him for being unable to look away from his betrothed. He caught sight of Milton dancing with his sisters, with their friends, even with Jody-- and there was a sight he would never forget-- but as often as he looked towards him, he just as frequently found Milton looking back.

No one who attended this ball would doubt their romance, Dean thought grimly. They had accomplished that much. 

He partnered Lady Hannah for the supper dance, complimenting her on her pale blue gown and prettily-dressed hair until a smile broke across her grave features. “You are simply made of charm, Lord Winchester,” she said. “You will be good for my brother. He takes matters so seriously.”

Dean raised one eyebrow at her. “Ah. A family trait?”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, but her smile widened. “Indeed.”

They joined the other members of their families for the meal, and Dean was impressed at how easily conversation flowed between them. Lady Hael, of course, was utterly fascinated by Jody, monopolizing much of her attention with questions about running an inn. The Dowager Duchess looked equally intrigued, but her interest was tempered with wariness as she watched her daughter’s face, clearly hoping she would not lose Hael to the romantic notion of a countryside inn.

“They aren’t nearly as high in the instep as I feared,” Sam murmured quietly, watching Milton and Lady Bellmore converse. “Of course, were they too rigid, they never would have welcomed you to the family.”

Dean treated his brother to a most undignified pinch to his elbow. “Only because they hadn’t met you yet. I’m surprised they haven’t voiced their objection now that they have.”

“Boys.” Jody levelled them with a stern glare from across the table. “Behave.”

Lady Bellmore broke off her conversation with Milton and gave her an appraising look. “Tell me,” she said, “does that work on all rowdy young men, or only on your sons? I may have to ask you to teach me that tone for my own benefit.”

While they entered into a lively discussion regarding the rudeness of men, Dean kept his eyes on Milton. They were seated directly opposite one another, giving Dean the perfect chance to slowly stretch his leg out under the table until his foot bumped alongside Milton’s.

He started, eyes widening, but made no sound. Holding his gaze, Dean moved his foot back and forth: an invitation, or perhaps a challenge.

Eyes darkening, Milton’s face remained perfectly composed as he extended his own leg, his calf now brushing against Dean’s. He could feel every inch of it, muscles coiled under the skin, and Dean bit down sharply on his lip at the thrill it sent through his body.

He had never passed a meal in such exquisite torture. 

They were engaged to dance the third set after supper together. Dean was barely aware of the first two, relying on long-ingrained courtesy and training to guide him through the steps without fumbling. By the time Milton came to claim his hand, he felt rather like a man who had been wandering in the desert, parched and feverish.

“Outside,” he said in a low voice. “Now.”

Milton raised one eyebrow, but offered no protest. “Yes, it is rather warm in here,” he said, pitching his voice so those standing nearby would hear. “A bit of fresh air would be lovely.”

His hand clamped down on Dean’s elbow and he guided him towards the terrace. Dean skidded to a halt, but Milton shook his head briefly. “Not here.”

Confused, but trusting Milton to know the design of his own house, Dean followed him down a set of stairs, along a short path in the garden, and then up a stone staircase tucked into the shadows of the house to a smaller balcony. One with, Dean noted, no view to the ballroom.

He opened his mouth to make some teasing remark, but it died on his lips at the look in Milton’s eyes. His hand slid up Dean’s arm to rest on his shoulder, and he said, “Yes?” in such a way that left no doubt in Dean’s mind as to his question.

“Yes,” he said, and then Milton’s lips were on his.

Dean groaned and buried his hands in Milton’s thick dark hair, pouring all the desire that had been building throughout the evening into the kiss. Milton’s mouth was hot on his, his lips moving with ruthless assurance, and the hand not on Dean’s shoulder was burning hot against the small of his back. Milton slid his lips away, and Dean made a noise of protest that soon turned to pleasure as Milton nipped lightly at the bolt of his jaw, then the lobe of his ear. Taking advantage of the position of his hands, Dean steered Milton’s face back to his and slanted his mouth over those soft pink lips, thrilling at the thought of them turning red from his kisses.

Groaning, Milton took a step forward, then another, until Dean’s back was pressed against the stone rail of the balcony. It offered some support for his trembling knees, for which he was grateful, and with nowhere else to go, it brought him flush against Milton’s body and the unmistakable press of his arousal. Dean gasped at the feel of it, insistent against his own leg, and shifted slightly, seeking relief. Milton was kissing his way down the side of Dean’s neck, murmuring something indecipherable, and Dean spared a giddy thought for the formerly perfect folds of his cravat, now surely destroyed. 

“You wretch,” he heard Milton say. “You deliberately provoked me.”

“Why would I not?” Dean asked, noting the harshness of his own breathing. The effect this man had on him was indescribable. “When the results are so enjoyable?”

Milton kissed him again, deep and thorough. “You make a fair point,” he said when he finally pulled away.

“Besides,” Dean added, letting his hand trail gently down Milton’s front, stopping just above his waist and watching the way Milton’s throat moved as he swallowed, “you gave just as good as you got.”

A slow, decidedly rakish grin crept over Milton’s face. “Indeed,” he said, before leaning forward to capture Dean’s lips with his own.

Dean surrendered to it with a happy groan. It had been some time since he had found someone who could thrill him so instantly, whose desires so closely matched his own. And, considering they had an image to maintain, he couldn’t exactly go around kissing anyone else. It was to both their advantage, he thought with what little capacity for rationality he had remaining, that this attraction between them burned so brightly. 

Milton’s hands were tight on his hips, keeping their lower bodies trapped together. Dean shifted, just as provocative as Milton accused him of being, and heard him groan as he tore his lips away from Dean’s. “We can’t,” he said, a world of regret in his voice. “This may be a private balcony, but we do need to return to the ballroom eventually.”

Dean sighed, dropping an absent kiss on Milton’s jaw before returning to his mouth. “I suppose,” he admitted. 

“And as loath as I am to put a stop to this”-- Milton laid a hand on Dean’s chest and leaned away-- “we ought to be getting back. We’ve been gone long enough for our absence to be noted.”

Dean pouted, looking up at Milton through his lashes. “Must we? I’m sure our guests will be charmed at the thought of us sneaking away together.” Capturing Milton’s hand, he pressed a kiss to his palm. “After all, we are betrothed.”

They were still pressed closely enough for Dean to feel the sudden tension in Milton’s body. His jaw tightened, and he withdrew his hand from Dean’s grip as he took a step back, and then another. 

“No,” he said quietly, running a hand through his hair, disordered by Dean’s grip. “We are not.”

He could not have chilled Dean so effectively if he had tossed a bucket of freezing water over him. Swallowing heavily, Dean stood upright, hands rising to fix the mess of his cravat. Milton made an impatient noise and stepped forward to fix it himself. For all his blunt words, he was gentle as he adjusted the folds of fabric.

“That’s pretty,” he said softly, brushing his fingers over the emerald pin.

Dean closed his eyes. “It was my mother’s.”

“Ah.” Stepping back, Milton folded his arms behind himself, every inch the perfect gentleman once more. “Lord Winchester, I fear I may owe you an apology.”

“Don’t.” Dean held up a hand to stop him. “You were right. We were...carried away in our performance.”

“Indeed.” After a slight pause, Milton continued. “I think it would be for the best if we did not--”

Dean opened his eyes and met his rueful gaze. “Give in to our passion?” he suggested.

“Yes, that.” Milton gave him a wry smile. 

Exhaling slowly, Dean turned his face away and looked out over the garden. He was perfectly capable of keeping affairs of the body and affairs of the heart separate, but Milton was not wrong to suggest there was something slightly sordid in using a fake betrothal as justification for their actions. Carrying on a discreet liaison was one thing, but this--

Squaring his shoulders, he met Milton’s patient gaze. “Do you think you can give me your arm and escort me back to the ballroom without losing control of yourself?”

“Wretch,” Milton said again, with something approaching fondness in his tone. “I shall behave myself if you do.”

“I make no promises,” Dean said, but he took the arm Milton proffered, and by the time they re-entered the ballroom, his composure had returned. 

He winked at Sam, who shook his head despairingly in return, and affected an innocent expression at Jody’s searching look. He did not dance with Milton again, and they were cordial but reserved at the close of the evening. 

Dean went to bed that night with the strangest feeling in his chest, like he was mourning something that had slipped through his fingers before he could grasp it fully.


	6. Chapter 6

After a fortnight in London, Castiel was thoroughly sick of it.

It was pleasant to be with his mother and sisters, he supposed, and he could find no fault with his accommodations or with the well-stocked library at Milton House. But at every turn, there were so many people, and even when he escaped the crowd, the air was stifling. 

He said as much to Anna one grey and drizzly morning. “How do you breathe here?” he asked, looking out the window. “The rain will clear the air, I suppose, but it’s never truly fresh.”

She crinkled her delicate nose. “And the air around Rexford is filled with the scent of cows,” she pointed out. “It’s no more virtuous simply for the fact that it is the country, brother. It’s all a matter of what one is accustomed to.”

Castiel considered this for a moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You may be correct. However”-- he grimaced as he glanced idly through the morning’s papers-- “I fear I am reaching my breaking point.”

Smiling softly, Anna crossed the room to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Poor Castiel,” she said. “You just wanted to be left alone, didn’t you?”

“Not entirely alone,” he protested. “I would have been delighted to have you and Mother and the twins come to stay with me. But--” He trailed off as a familiar gleam appeared in Anna’s eyes. “What is it?”

“You need a respite,” she declared. “A house party would be just the thing.”

Castiel blinked at her. The thought of escaping London did appeal, but-- “And what about my betrothed?”

Anna rolled her eyes in a most unladylike fashion. “Of course you invite him. And his brother, and a few select friends. A small gathering, so you won’t feel overwhelmed. You’ll have everyone desperate for an invitation, but it will give you some time away from London.” She grinned, then, looking ten years younger and a thousand times more mischievous. “And I will have the chance to be approached on my own merits again, rather than as a source of gossip about my brother, the ever so mysterious Duke of Milton.”

It was clear she was teasing, but Castiel frowned regardless. “Have I made things difficult for you?” he asked haltingly. “It was never my intention.”

Reaching down to squeeze his hand, Anna shook her head. “Dear brother. I’m jesting with you.”

It only proved how little he knew his sister anymore, that he felt so strange speaking to her this way. But Castiel drew in a deep breath and said, “I’m aware I haven’t always done my duty to you, Anna. Or to the girls, though I worry less about them. Well, I worry in different ways, but--”

A slight frown creased Anna’s forehead. “Castiel, what on earth are you rambling about?”

“I should have been there for you, after Bellmore passed,” he said in a rush. “We’ve never spoken of it, and I just wanted you to know, that should you ever wish to, I am always willing to lend an ear.”

Anna’s eyes went wide. “Castiel, I--” She shook her head, one lock of red hair tumbling free as she did. “Why would you say this to me now?”

She sounded more puzzled than outraged. Castiel shrugged slightly, searching for the best way to explain it. “Well, for one, this is the longest we’ve spent in each other’s company in years,” he said lightly. 

With a slight smile, Anna nodded. “True.”

“But it’s more than that.” Castiel withdrew his hand from Anna’s grasp and pushed it through his hair. “I’ve grown accustomed to self-sufficiency, and to my tenants and neighbours asking when they want or need something from me. It’s very direct, country life.” His smile turned wry. “It occurs to me that not everyone goes about their lives in such a way, and that sometimes you need to be the one to offer assistance.”

“Well.” Anna fiddled with a fold of her gown, eyes suspiciously bright. “Your betrothal has certainly brought you a new level of maturity.”

Castiel laughed. “And a new level of awareness of my responsibilities to those I care for,” he added. “Lord Winchester’s family is lovely, are they not? I was so pleased to see you all at ease with one another at the ball.”

“They are. You’ve made a wonderful choice, Castiel.” Anna looked down, her voice going quiet. “I hope with all my heart your happiness lasts.”

A lump rose in Castiel’s throat as he gently laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. His happiness was not designed to last past the summer, but Anna couldn’t know that. “I do as well,” he said. 

“Now.” Looking up again, Anna dashed a hand across her face. “Enough sentimentality for the day, I think. Who else ought you invite to this house party of yours?”

It seemed she was not yet willing to pour her innermost feelings out to him. Perhaps she never would be. But, satisfied that he had made his position clear, Castiel bent his head forward as Anna began to list names of potential guests. It might not be the comfort he hoped to provide, but it was still a closeness, and he was grateful for it. 

Oddly, he thought Winchester would be proud of him.

***

The next afternoon, Castiel waved away the footman who offered to bring the carriage round as he descended the staircase. “I’m not going far,” he said with a smile. “And it’s a lovely day for a walk.”

“Very well, Your Grace.” The footman wore a look that suggested the servants were becoming accustomed to the Duke’s eccentricities by now. Castiel smiled at the thought as he took his hat and walking stick and stepped out into the sunshine.

Upon Anna’s advice, he had written a note to Winchester, informing him of his plans and asking his thoughts. A brief but rapid response had assured him of Winchester’s approval, and they had arranged to meet this afternoon at Balthazar’s home to invite their friends in person.

It was, Castiel thought with some trepidation, a potential disaster. He and Winchester had settled into a friendly sort of manner with one another after the incident Castiel did his best not to think about, but had avoided being alone together. They were usually accompanied by Mr. Campbell or one of Castiel’s sisters, or any of Winchester’s numerous friends and acquaintances. 

Winchester hadn’t mentioned the kiss-- though to reduce it to that word alone was laughable, considering its effect on Castiel-- and so neither would Castiel. If it was the last thing he thought about before falling asleep each night, well, that was his torment to bear.

Since Balthazar’s once-grand home lay quite neatly between Milton House and Winchester’s residence, they had arranged to meet there. Turning the corner, Castiel was pleased to see a familiar figure striding towards him, fashionably turned out in a dark green coat and buff breeches. Lifting a hand in greeting, he crossed the street and met Winchester’s smile with one of his own.

“Good day,” he greeted him, only slightly stiffly. 

“I suppose it is,” Winchester said agreeably, no trace of awkwardness in his manner.

Taking his offered arm, Castiel made conversation by asking about his mother and brother until they drew up in front of Balthazar’s home. There was a steady stream of people, labourers by the looks of them, going up and down the stairs, directed by an officious-looking butler Castiel recognized from previous visits.

Winchester frowned. “What the devil--”

Castiel, however, understood instantly. Considering Winchester’s complicated feelings towards Balthazar, though, he determined it might be best to feign ignorance. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

The butler saw them approaching and made a low bow. “Your Grace. Lord Winchester. You are expected in the drawing room.”

Nodding politely, Castiel side-stepped to avoid a pair of burly workers carrying a length of what appeared to be new curtains, almost tripping over Winchester as he did. “Steady,” he said, catching Castiel by the forearms.

It was the closest contact they’d had since the night of the betrothal ball. Castiel froze, heart pounding as the memories surged to mind, then exhaled slowly and stepped back. “How clumsy of me,” he said with a laugh. 

“The proper form of address doesn’t seem so applicable now, does it, Your Grace?” Winchester said with a grin. He was still quite close to Castiel, still within reach, and Castiel wanted desperately to kiss that teasing expression off his face. 

Instead, he adopted his most haughty look, rather wishing he’d taken to carrying a quizzing glass like so many other overly affected gentlemen. “I am the picture of composure,” he said, and couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through his entire body when Winchester threw back his head and laughed without restraint.

He was still wearing an amused look as a footman sprang hastily to open the door to the drawing room. Castiel entered first, immediately noting the new furnishings in the room, but refrained from commenting. 

“Castiel!” Balthazar leapt to his feet and crossed the room in two strides, sweeping him up in an embrace. “You naughty thing. Stealing a betrothed for yourself at my wedding? Shockingly ill-mannered of you.” He grinned as he stepped back, still holding Castiel by the shoulders. “And then not coming to see me until now. I am quite upset with you, I’ll have you know.”

“Noted,” Castiel said drily. He beckoned Winchester forward, catching sight of Mr. Lafitte rising from the armchair on the other side of the room. “You remember Lord Winchester, of course.”

“Of course.” Balthazar inclined his head, eyes sharpening. “Congratulations, Winchester. You’ve quite the treasure of a man, here.”

“As do you,” Winchester replied, his eyes darting to Mr. Lafitte. “Benny, how are you?”

“Well enough,” Mr. Lafitte replied. “Congratulations to you both.”

The courtesies observed, there was a slight lull as they all took each other’s measure. Castiel scrutinized Balthazar’s face as discreetly as he could. He looked-- quite astonishingly well, actually. The lines of strain around his eyes and mouth had eased, as had the dark circles that shadowed his once-laughing eyes. Taking advantage of the way Winchester and Lafitte had drawn slightly aside, he leaned in and said, “Marriage agrees with you.”

A slight smile appeared on Balthazar’s face. “So much so that you thought you’d best follow in my footsteps with all possible speed.”

Flushing faintly, Castiel nodded. “Something like that.”

He wished he could reveal the truth. Balthazar was his oldest friend, the person to whom he always turned in times of need, and while he might cultivate an air of disinterest in public, he could be an intensely sympathetic listener when required. 

But they were here to further their deception, not to admit to it. With the comfort due to him as an old friend, Castiel settled himself on the loveseat. “Shall I go ahead and ring for tea?” he asked, raising one eyebrow. “Your hosting skills have gone wandering, Balthazar.”

With a laugh, Balthazar rang the bell and took a seat in one of the armchairs. Mr. Lafitte returned to the one he had vacated, leaving Winchester with no choice but to perch beside Castiel on the loveseat. He cast a dazzling smile at Castiel as he did, stealing the breath from his lungs before he remembered it was all an act.

“We haven’t been entertaining much,” Mr. Lafitte said. He was a quiet man, Castiel observed. Strange, that he should be such good friends with Winchester, who would politely be described as garrulous. Then again, to those who didn’t know them well, his own friendship with Balthazar might seem similarly unlikely.

“Nor taking advantage of other entertainments, I’ve noticed,” Winchester said. His tone was light enough, but his eyes were glittering with something Castiel couldn’t identify. “I’d have thought you were on a wedding trip, judging by your total absence these past weeks.”

“Any note or call of yours would have found us here,” Balthazar replied. He was smiling, but there was an edge to it now. “I daresay you’ve been busy with your own wedding plans.”

The air was thick with tension, and Castiel could feel Winchester stiffening beside him. He knew, from experience, that he would make some retort, and Balthazar would answer it in his particularly devastating manner. Neither of them, he thought with both fondness and exasperation, were what one might call disciplined.

Straightening in his seat, he opened his mouth to divert the conversation elsewhere, but before he could speak, Mr. Lafitte raised one large hand. “Enough,” he said. His voice was quiet, but there was pure iron in it. “The two of you will cease this ridiculous sniping at once, or I will invite His Grace for a ride in the park where we can carry on a pleasant conversation without being subjected to your immaturity.”

Castiel sucked in a startled breath. He glanced carefully at both Balthazar and Winchester, gauging their reactions, and was shocked to find them both calming visibly. Winchester exhaled slowly and gave a rueful shrug, while Balthazar dipped his head and made an airy gesture with his hands.

“Good. Now.” Mr. Lafitte looked over at Castiel and smiled, quite genuinely. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

It was remarkable how he so easily cowed two of the most combative men Castiel knew. Inclining his head in appreciation of that, he said, “We had hoped to persuade you to join us at Rexford Park for a small house party I will be hosting.”

“How pleasant.” Mr. Lafitte looked over at Balthazar and raised one eyebrow. “I would be delighted. My lord?”

“Your delight is mine, my dear,” Balthazar drawled. “Rexford is a lovely estate. It would be most pleasant indeed to spend a few days there, away from all the noise.”

“We’re in the midst of some changes to the house, as you may have noticed,” Mr. Lafitte added. 

“Indeed,” Winchester said, so blandly Castiel sat up again, tensing for another outburst. 

His instincts were clearly correct, as Mr. Lafitte narrowed his eyes at Winchester. “At my suggestion,” he said.

“And your expense,” Winchester murmured, so low only Castiel could hear him, but judging by the expression on Balthazar’s face, he could quite easily guess what had been said.

Fortunately, they were interrupted by the arrival of the tea tray, which seemed to remind Balthazar of his duties as a host. Pouring and fixing their tea, he soon had them all laughing at the story of the time he spilled a cup of tea on Anna’s gown and she punched him in the jaw in retaliation. Castiel added in the detail of how this entire scene had played out in front of his grandmother, notoriously haughty, and how she had scolded them both so sternly he thought they might never dare present themselves to her again.

“Ah, the follies of youth,” Balthazar said with a shake of his head. “You were at Cambridge with my husband, were you not, Winchester? Surely you have some tales to tell of your own misadventures.”

Castiel braced himself for a biting reply from Winchester, and was both surprised and relieved when he only grinned crookedly in response. “Us? No, no. We were as respectable as two boys could be, were we not?”

Mr. Lafitte laughed, the uncharacteristic levity making him look quite handsome. “I was, at least. I did my best to keep my head down, to blend in with all you lords’ sons, but somebody had to keep you out of the worst kind of trouble, and most often that meant settling for something slightly less objectionable.”

It was the first reference Mr. Lafitte had made to the difference in their stations, and Castiel found himself wondering how often he had been reminded of it at school. He knew all too well how cruel boys could be, especially boys growing up secure in the knowledge that their family wealth and reputation could protect them from consequences. With that in mind, Winchester and Lafitte’s friendship made a great deal more sense. Though of indisputably noble blood, Winchester had been raised in a country inn until he was sent away to school. He and Lafitte must have become allies against the casual scorn of the other boys.

What did that make them now, Castiel wondered, considering Balthazar’s lineage and Castiel’s own position? How would alliances be drawn if he and Winchester truly were a couple? And what horrible things might they have to say about privileged, titled men, once the fake betrothal was ended? And what wedge might it drive in Balthazar’s marriage, with Castiel and Winchester at odds and both their friends seeking to lay blame at someone’s door?

Perhaps he would have a chance to speak to Balthazar alone once they were at Rexford. A long ride, or a walk through the extensive grounds, when they could have a quiet word. Winchester would certainly be seeking an opportunity to do the same with Mr. Lafitte. 

Glancing up at the clock above the mantle-- one of the few pieces of furniture he recognized from previous visits-- Castiel let out a noise of surprise. “Good heavens,” he said. “We’ve quite overstayed our welcome.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Lafitte replied, with no trace of dishonesty. “It has been a pleasure.”

“It has,” Balthazar agreed. “I look forward to many such conversations once we’re all together at Rexford. You’ll be going up early, I assume, to get the house ready?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “I depart the day after tomorrow.”

Winchester turned to him, clearly surprised. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to find another escort to Lady Anglessey’s soiree,” Castiel teased.

A strange smile played over Winchester’s lips. “A pity.”

“You can come with us,” Lafitte offered. 

Winchester glanced at him with wide eyes. “You’re attending?”

“It appears so,” Balthazar said. “It would be most unsporting of us to leave you alone while your betrothed disappears to the country. Save me a dance, will you, Winchester?”

Castiel had never seen Winchester at such a loss for words. “Thank you,” he managed eventually. “I will.”

Catching Castiel’s eye, Balthazar winked at him. He always did have a knack for passing his kindness off as some sort of lazy interest. Castiel nodded in thanks, knowing Winchester would be well-looked after in his absence.

Winchester had already turned towards the door, but Castiel was still looking at Balthazar, so he saw the brief kiss Mr. Lafitte planted on his cheek, the way Balthazar flushed delicately pink, and the soft words they exchanged. A warm feeling settled in his chest, and he smiled at them both. 

“Hush,” Balthazar said, stepping forward to take Castiel’s arm. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I haven’t said anything,” Castiel protested. He immediately contradicted himself by leaning forward and whispering, “I’m happy for you, my friend.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes, but the stain in his cheeks only deepened. “Hush,” he said again, leading Castiel towards the door. “It’s nothing to be so pleased about.”

“It’s your happiness,” Castiel said firmly, “and there is nothing that pleases me more.”

He caught Mr. Lafitte’s eye and gave him an approving nod. “I look forward to seeing you at Rexford,” he said. 

Mr. Lafitte bowed slightly, but when he straightened up, he winked, turning him from quietly stern to roguish in an instant. “Your Grace.”

“I think it had better be Castiel,” he said, offering his hand. 

Lafitte shook it warmly. “Benny, then.”

A look of understanding passed between them, and Castiel found himself whistling as he descended the stairs to where Winchester waited in the front hall, surrounded by bustling labourers.

“The renovations seem to be proceeding well,” he said abruptly.

Castiel felt Balthazar stiffen, but after a beat, he inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I do hope you’ll come visit once all the work is complete.”

Winchester smiled, and Castiel relaxed as he and Balthazar shook hands. Then they all said their goodbyes, and he and Winchester left with one last wave to their friends.

Once outside, Winchester let out a deep breath. “That went well,” he said.

Castiel raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “You say that as though you didn’t try your best to provoke an argument with Balthazar.”

Winchester’s expression turned guilty. “I know. It was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m rather defensive when it comes to Benny, though, and”-- he waved his hand at the house behind them, still swarming with labourers-- “I hate the thought of him being taken advantage of.”

Reflecting on the surprisingly tender moment he had witnessed, Castiel shook his head. “I don’t believe that is what’s happening here,” he said quietly. “And no, I am not allowing my friendship with Balthazar to colour my judgement.”

“I know,” Winchester said again. “What Benny chooses to do with his vast piles of money is no concern of mine. But--” He sighed and cast a pleading look up at Castiel. “I am sorry if I made things awkward for you. It was not my intention.”

“Mr. Lafitte handled it quite efficiently.” Castiel shook his head in amusement. “He has a most commanding presence.”

“And a great deal of practice putting it to use saving me from my own folly,” Winchester replied wryly. “I’m sure he’ll have occasion to do so again.”

They had reached the edge of the square, where their paths would split. Castiel cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “Well. I suppose I shall see you at Rexford?”

“Yes.” Winchester nodded, then made an aborted move forward. “At Rexford.”

There was little else to say, but Castiel found it difficult to turn away, caught wondering what Winchester had been about to do before he pulled himself back. A handshake? An embrace? 

Finally, Castiel dropped into an elegant bow, the best recourse of any gentleman unsure how to handle a situation. “Good day, Winchester.”

And Winchester made an equally formal bow in response, lips turned up ever so slightly as he said, “Good day.”

Castiel stood and watched him walk away, and it wasn’t until he turned a corner and disappeared from sight that he heaved a sigh and made for Milton House.

If only Mr. Lafitte had been present at Lady Talbot’s ball, he thought with resigned amusement, perhaps he might have saved Castiel and Winchester from the exceedingly troublesome situation they now found themselves in.


	7. Chapter 7

The first glimpse of Rexford Park stole the breath from Dean’s lungs. 

He was the owner of several properties of varying degrees of grandness, and thought himself above being awed by the sprawling estates of his peers. But Rexford quite simply glowed in the late afternoon sun, the gates glinting as they swung open to admit the carriage, a smoothly paved path leading up to loop in front of the house around a merrily splashing fountain. The hedges were perfectly trimmed, the lawn brilliantly green, and off to the side of the house, he could see what appeared to be a sprawling garden. 

If this was where Milton lived, it was little wonder he came to London so infrequently. 

“What a beautiful house,” Mrs. Tran said, peering out the carriage window. “I’d heard people say Rexford was one of the grandest estates in all of England, but to see it myself--”

“It’s just a house.” Kevin looked out the window and shrugged, unmoved. “I’m far more interested in seeing Milton’s famous library.”

Dean barely brought his hand up to his mouth in time to cover his laugh. He should have expected as much from Sam’s closest friend. Looking across at his brother, he was pleased to see an expression of interest on his face as they rolled closer to the house. Milton had insisted that Sam join them, citing both expectation and propriety, and Dean had been relieved when Sam agreed eagerly. Bringing Kevin and Mrs. Tran along only made sense, and they were precisely the sort of congenial company Milton would approve of. 

It was a beautiful house, and Dean had no doubt Milton would be a perfect host, but he still felt some trepidation at the thought of being here for five nights. In such close quarters with his faux-betrothed. There would be fewer eyes on them than there might be in a London ballroom, but they would have to maintain the charade for longer, and would be expected to remain close to each other for the duration of the party. Not that it would be a chore, exactly-- even now that they had put a stop to displays of passion, Dean did enjoy Milton’s company-- but it would be difficult regardless.

At least the greatest performance of his life would have a stunning backdrop.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and Dean caught sight of Milton waiting to greet them. As Dean climbed out of the carriage, Milton hastily descended the broad steps, stretching out his hand.

Aware of several pairs of eyes on them, Dean took it without hesitation and managed not to inhale sharply when Milton raised his hand to his lips. “Welcome to Rexford Park,” he said.

Dean’s heart gave a strange lurch in his chest. He had never once seen that smile on Milton’s face, an expression of pure happiness that lit him up from within. If he had thought the house beautiful, it was nothing compared to its owner.

Struggling to regain his composure, Dean said, “Thank you. You have a lovely home.”

Impossibly, Milton’s smile widened. “I’m so glad you think so.” He opened his mouth, then gave a rueful shrug as Sam descended from the carriage. “I do hope you’ll be comfortable here,” he continued, every inch the polished host. Letting go of Dean’s hand, he moved to the side to greet the others, giving Dean a chance to steady himself.

He had always known Milton was handsome. It was an objective truth. He had also always known him to be _attractive_ , a more subjective thing altogether. But this-- this went beyond the mere arrangement of features and composition of form. It was only now that Dean noticed Milton’s casual dress, his rough brown boots and comfortably loose jacket. It was as though Dean had been given a glimpse into the very core of Milton himself, and God help him, he wanted more.

“Lord Winchester!” Mrs. Tran was giving him a strange look, and Dean had the sneaking suspicion that wasn’t her first attempt to get his attention. She had taken Milton’s arm while a swarm of footmen dealt with their baggage, and Milton was clearly waiting to escort them inside.

“My apologies,” Dean said. “I was overwhelmed by the splendour of the house.”

Milton smiled, but Dean saw a shrewd look on Sam’s face that promised an interrogation later. Hopefully, Rexford would have plenty of rooms for Dean to hide from his brother in.

Dean was shown to a beautiful guest chamber, decorated in blues and golds, that overlooked the gardens, which were as lavish and lush as he expected. Smiling at the footman who carried in his luggage, Dean sat on the plush armchair by the window and watched as a gardener pushed a wheelbarrow along the gravel path, whistling as he went. This was a happy place, he could immediately tell, and despite his earlier nerves, he knew he was going to enjoy his time here.

He refused to think about what it would mean when it came to an end.

As instructed, he changed out of his traveling clothes and flagged down another smiling footman, and was directed to a sitting room on the main floor where the other guests had congregated. His traveling companions were not there, but along with Milton, Benny, and Silverton, he was quickly greeted by Mrs. Hanscum, Miss Patience Turner, and Sir Victor Henriksen, another old school friend. 

Yes, Dean thought, accepting a cup of tea and settling into a seat between Milton and Henriksen, he was going to enjoy his time here very much.

***

The next morning, Dean woke early, but spent several indulgent minutes lazing in his comfortable bed, listening to the sound of birds chirping outside his window. It was going to be a beautiful day, he could tell, and that was enough to prompt him to rise. They’d retired early the evening before, after the long journeys they’d all had, but Dean was determined to make good use of his first full day at Rexford.

He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, where an abundant breakfast spread was laid out. He was the first to rise, or so he thought, until he asked one of the maids about the stables and was informed that Mrs. Tran and Mrs. Hanscum had already breakfasted and set off on an early morning ride. Thanking her, Dean set to his own meal, thinking he might catch up to them if he was quick.

He had almost finished his coffee when Milton appeared, hair a disordered mess but eyes bright. “Oh,” he said, halting at the sight of Dean alone in the room. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Dean answered. 

“I didn’t expect anyone to be up so early,” Milton laughed, reaching for a plate. “I keep country hours even in London, but I rather assumed you would all do the opposite.”

Dean grinned as Milton spread a lavish amount of marmalade on his toast. “I thought I had claimed the honour of being first to rise, but apparently, Mrs. Tran and Mrs. Hanscum have beaten us both.”

“They do rather tend to put one quite firmly in one’s place.” Milton smiled as he took a seat beside Dean. “But where have they disappeared to?”

“A ride.” Dean set down his cup and glanced out the window. “I think I will join them.”

Milton’s face fell quite visibly. Dean narrowed his eyes, and then, injecting his voice with a carelessness he didn’t at all feel, said, “You would be most welcome.”

And immediately regretted it, because Milton’s face lit up with that smile again, and Dean wasn’t sure how much more of that blinding happiness his heart could handle. 

Finishing his meal with impressive speed, Milton led Dean out to the stables. “I’ve heard you’re something of an expert horseman,” he commented, giving Dean a sidelong look. “I do hope my stables will meet your expectations.”

“I’m sure they will.” Dean caught sight of a proudly arched neck and stepped towards the stall housing a beautiful bay stallion. “And this is?”

It was difficult to tell in the shadows of the stable, but he thought he saw a faint flush on Milton’s cheeks. “Romeo.”

Dean couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped him. “A most impressive name, but I do hope he will have a happier fate.”

“I think he’ll suit you quite well,” Milton said, a hint of a smile tucked into the corners of his lips. He selected a chestnut gelding for himself, and mounted with the fluid grace Dean had observed on other occasions. From their first meeting, Dean had thought he looked like a man who spent a great deal of time on horseback, and it was clear his early impression had been correct.

The park stretched around them, and Dean deferred to Milton’s familiarity with the landscape and allowed him to choose their direction. He set a gentle pace, and a comfortable silence fell between them as Dean simply allowed himself to observe the beauty surrounding them. 

Including Milton. 

He must not have been as sly about his glances as he hoped, because Milton twisted to look at him, eyes amused. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

Dean scowled at him. “It should be beneath your dignity to acknowledge looks of admiration.”

Milton shrugged. “We don’t stand much on dignity, you and I, and I never have here.” Something shadowed passed behind his eyes for a moment. “In fact, I rather object to it.”

Dean guided Romeo closer. “Why is that?”

It was impertinent, of course, but Milton had just said he expected nothing less.

And indeed, there was no hesitation before he replied. “My father was a stern man.”

Dean must have made some noise of alarm, because Milton quickly shook his head and added, “Not cruel, and not even unkind. I believe he loved us-- in fact, I know he did. But he took his duties seriously, and at times I suspect he considered himself the Duke of Milton first and James Allen second.” He did pause then, his eyes distant. “When I inherited the title, I swore to myself I would never lose myself in it the way he did. It has been a delicate balance, but on the whole, I believe I’m happier for it.”

It was a remarkable speech, and Dean took several minutes to absorb it. “Is that part of why you prefer to be here rather than in London?” he asked eventually. “You can be forgiven some degree of eccentricity, and your position protects you, but it also imposes certain expectations.”

“Precisely.” Milton gave him an approving nod. “Rexford is entirely my domain to run as I see fit. Which sounds rather pompous, and even selfish, but--”

“No.” Dean cut him off. “Not at all. I understand you perfectly.”

Milton tilted his head to the side, his gaze stripping Dean bare. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “I rather think you might.”

There was no reply Dean could make to that. He swallowed roughly and dragged his eyes away, noting that they’d reached a rolling expanse of grass with a distant rise ahead. A reckless energy surging inside him, he threw a mischievous grin over his shoulder at Milton and said, “Race you to that rise?”

He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, just pressed his heels against Romeo’s sides and let him fly. 

Twisting in the saddle, he saw Milton catching up to him. A laugh bubbled up in Dean’s chest and he let it free as a whoop, the wind rushing past his face as they galloped over the soft grass. 

They reached the rise at precisely the same time. Dean leaned forward to whisper soft words of praise into Romeo’s ear as they slowed their pace, though he had the feeling the stallion would have been content to keep running. Beside him, Milton was doing the same with his own horse, but then he looked up and caught Dean’s eye.

Dean wanted nothing more than to swing down from his horse, take two steps forward, and pull Milton into a kiss. From the look on his face, Milton was considering the exact same thing. If they both wanted it, surely, it couldn’t be a bad thing?

Instead, Dean gave a shaky sigh, lips quirking into a rueful grin. After a moment, Milton mirrored his expression and shrugged lightly. “That was invigorating,” he said, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh.

“Your reputation is entirely deserved, I see,” Milton continued, and for a moment Dean’s mind went blank before he remembered their earlier discussion about his horsemanship. 

Smiling, Dean patted Romeo on the neck. “Growing up at a busy inn did have its advantages. I spent most of my time in the stables, and every minute I had free, I was out riding.” His smile widened. “My mothers would stand outside at twilight and holler for me to come home.”

“And did you listen?”

“Of course I did,” Dean said, pretending to be offended at the suggestion otherwise. “One should always respect one’s mothers, especially when they’re like mine.”

Milton laughed, tipping his head back and highlighting the strong lines of his throat. “I quite like Mrs. Mills.”

“You would,” Dean said wryly. Looking down at the ground, he added, “You would have liked Mrs. Campbell as well.”

A second later, he felt a warm hand on his leg, just above the top of his boot. “I’m sure I would have,” Milton said softly, gazing up at Dean with nothing but compassion in his eyes. 

Dean wanted to kiss him again. Not with passion, not with lust, but with something softer, something altogether more precious. It beckoned Dean as sweetly as a siren’s song just as it scared the hell out of him like sharp rocks beneath a fragile ship. He was lost, adrift, in the sea of Milton’s eyes, the faint pressure of his hand the only anchor he had.

Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, because Milton took a step backwards, dropping his hand. Dean wanted to cry out at the loss of contact, but forced himself to remain quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Milton said, and Dean had the sense his apology covered far more than that one gesture. 

“I know,” he said in reply. 

Biting his lip, Milton swung himself back into his saddle and gave Dean a sad smile. “Shall we return to the house? I expect some of the others will be awake by now.”

Dean blew out a deep breath and nodded. “Not Henriksen,” he said lightly. “He’s a terrible slugabed. I was constantly waking him up for lessons when we were boys, and he had the most annoying habit of ignoring me entirely until the last possible minute, at which time he would curse at me for not waking him sooner.”

Milton smiled wryly, quite clearly understanding the distance Dean was attempting to put between them, and said, “And where was Mr. Lafitte during all of this?”

Torn between grief and relief at the change in tone, Dean spent the rest of the ride back to the house recounting tales of his school days, and while he treasured the laughs they provoked, his heart remained heavy in his chest. 

Fortunately, they found the rest of the party gathered in one of the sitting rooms, and Dean was soon swept into a friendly debate between Sam and Miss Turner regarding the latest anonymously published novel sweeping the nation. Sam believed it could only have been written by a man of significant experience, while Miss Turner argued that anyone who spent any amount of time among the ton could have skewered them so effectively. Not having read the novel in question, but now desperately wanting to, Dean found himself agreeing with Miss Turner, and only partially because he wanted to rile his brother. 

If his attention occasionally wandered to where Milton was sitting with Benny and Silverton, it was only to be expected. In the eyes of everyone else here, they were betrothed.

***

By the next day, Dean was thoroughly enchanted with Rexford.

They’d dined casually the night before and then retired to the parlour for a game of charades that had them all in stitches in laughter. Today, after a morning ride with Benny and Victor, grey clouds had rolled in from the north, and they’d returned to the house to find glum faces staring out the windows.

Milton, however, hadn’t let the weather put a damper on the festivities. He’d declared it past time for a grand tour, and led them through the lofty hallways and myriad chambers of the house with both pride and passion. 

Now they found themselves in the portrait gallery, on the upper level of the house, with the soft pattering of rain sounding on the roof above them. Mrs. Hanscum and Mrs. Tran were exclaiming over the elaborate fashions on some of the ladies depicted in the earlier paintings, while Victor and Silverton argued good-naturedly over the custom of powdering one’s hair. Victor, Dean observed, seemed to have no issue with Benny’s hasty, transactional marriage, nor with his new husband. Dean made a note to discuss the matter with him later. 

Benny, meanwhile, was nodding along as Miss Turner explained something about a detail of Milton’s family history, with Sam and Kevin listening intently, occasionally breaking in to interrupt. Dean watched with narrowed eyes as Sam cut Miss Turner off for the third time, resolving to step in and remind his brother of his manners, but Milton’s soft chuckle stopped him. “I believe Miss Turner can handle this herself,” he said quietly.

Dean folded his arms across his chest, tensed to spring into action at the first sign of a lady’s distress, but Milton was correct. Miss Turner smiled sweetly at Sam and said, eyes wide, “How fascinating, Mr. Campbell. Perhaps you ought to lead this tour, since you know ever so much about His Grace’s family.”

Biting his lip to hold back his laughter, Dean’s shoulders shook as Sam flushed an ugly shade of red. “He means well,” he confided to Milton in a low voice. “He just gets carried away in his enthusiasm.”

“Indeed.” A small smile played about Milton’s lips. “And Miss Turner shamed him beautifully by being so polite in her rebuke.”

“Oh, to be so young,” Dean sighed. 

Milton let out a sound that would certainly be termed a snort from anyone below the rank of marquess. “You’re what, five years older than your brother?”

“Four,” Dean admitted. “But sometimes it seems like a decade.”

“Being an older brother myself, I can sympathize.” A pensive look stole over Milton’s face. “I would have liked a younger brother, I think. Not that I don’t love my sisters, of course, but--”

Dean smiled and nodded his understanding. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a sister.”

Milton gave him a sidelong look. “Perhaps we can arrange some sort of temporary swap,” he suggested. “You take the twins, and I’ll take Mr. Campbell.”

“Unfair,” Dean protested, very much enjoying this teasing tone. “Two sisters is not an even trade for one brother.”

“Ah,” Milton said, eyes gleaming, “in standard units of personhood, no. But by weight, I think it would take both of them to measure up.”

Dean laughed, casting a fond look at his rather overgrown brother. “You have me there.”

He hadn’t thought the words through. If he had, he would have found another way to express himself. He saw Milton start, saw his eyes widen, and Dean cursed himself, knowing exactly what he was thinking. There was too much suggestion in those four words, too much potential for lowered voices and rising temperatures. 

“And who is this?” he asked, suddenly giving the portrait on the wall between them his attention, dragging his thoughts away from all the places and all the ways he would like Milton to have him.

Milton only hesitated for a second before replying. “That would be my father,” he said, voice neutral.

“Oh.” Intrigued, Dean peered at it more closely. The previous duke was painted in his prime, perhaps in his early forties, with dark hair just beginning to turn grey at the temples. It was far more orderly than Milton’s, but Dean saw the same strong jawline, the same sharp brows. Milton’s father’s eyes were dark, though, and there was a tension in his lips that made him somewhat forbidding. 

“I can see some resemblance,” he admitted. “But--”

He cut himself off before he said something too honest. Milton raised one eyebrow, but thankfully didn’t press the matter.

“Ah,” Dean said, turning to the next portrait. “Now this lovely lady I recognize.”

At that, Milton smiled. “I should like to see you call my mother a lovely lady to her face.”

“She is,” Dean protested. Naomi Allen was painted several decades younger, her hair bright auburn without the strands of grey that now laced through it. “Yes, a lovely lady indeed. Just like all three of your sisters.”

Milton smiled. “You charm them without them even being present.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s a reflex, I admit.” He turned to the last portrait on the wall, only then realizing how far they’d drifted from the rest of the group. “And this is--”

He broke off, startled, as he looked at the painting. He had been expecting a family portrait, or perhaps a depiction of Milton as a young man. But instead, from within a gilt frame, was a somewhat imperfect but still striking picture of a noble-looking hound, ears pricked forward at attention.

“Ah.” Beside him, Milton flushed, a rather adorably sheepish expression on his face. “That would be Faithful, our most beloved family pet.”

“Beloved indeed, to be included here,” Dean murmured.

Milton’s flush deepened. “Hael painted that not long after poor Faithful left us. She insisted he was part of the family, and”-- he shrugged-- “I didn’t have the heart to refuse her. So I let her hang it here.” Then, somewhat defensively, he added, “She was only twelve at the time.”

Dean bit his lip, imagining a much younger Milton arguing with his sister before finally giving in. “And you’ve never taken it down?”

“Lord, no.” Milton looked startled at the very thought. “Hael would be distraught. And besides”-- he smiled-- “it makes for good conversation.”

“It does,” Dean agreed. Revealing conversation, in fact. Perhaps too revealing. He didn’t quite know what to do with the information that Milton was a fond, indulgent brother with a soft spot for hounds.

“I’ve often considered bringing Hael a new pet, but--” He shrugged again. “She claims no one could ever replace Faithful, and I think she may be correct. I do like to visit the cats in the stables and the kitchens, though. Especially when there are kittens.”

That was simply too much to bear. Dean was not overly fond of cats himself, but imagining Milton surrounded by small furry creatures, those large hands of his cradling them softly to his chest--

“I say,” Sam called, thankfully distracting Dean from his thoughts, “it sounds like the rain has stopped. Shall we venture outside before it comes back?”

Milton gave Dean an inquiring look and offered his arm. Smiling, Dean took it, casting one last glance at Faithful’s portrait as they walked away. 

Maybe he would find a puppy for Milton. As a parting gift. A thank you for agreeing to this ridiculous scheme, something that would stay with him long after Dean disappeared from his life.


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he was so happy.

Not that he was unhappy, as a rule. He would generally describe himself as content, settled, with occasional days of ebb and flow. But these past few days at Rexford were quite out of the ordinary. 

On the third day of the house party, he once again found Winchester breakfasting alone. If he were of a more suspicious mind, he might think the other guests had somehow arranged this. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

Winchester smiled at him over his coffee cup, his eyes still soft from sleep. There was a faint crease along one of his cheeks, likely from his face being pressed against his pillow, and Castiel ached to reach out and smooth it with his thumb. Winchester was tempting enough when he glittered in his fine clothes, his charm as warm as the rays of the sun, but like this, he was far more dangerous. 

“Good morning,” Winchester replied. “Shall we go for another ride today?”

Castiel considered it, then shook his head as he took a bite of toast. “You haven’t seen the wilderness walk yet, have you?”

A flare of interest lit Winchester’s eyes. “No, I haven’t. But it sounds lovely.”

“It is.” Castiel helped himself to some bacon and eggs before pulling out a chair opposite Winchester. “If any of the others wake in time, I’m sure they would enjoy it as well.”

He couldn’t decide if that was what he wanted most or least. Being alone with Winchester was both a blessing and a burden, and Castiel wasn’t sure if he would resent any intrusion on that time or be grateful for the presence of someone else to distract him. 

By the time they both finished their breakfasts, no one else had joined them. Castiel was now quite convinced this was a deliberate scheme, and he was certain Balthazar was the instigator. It would be just like him. Forcing a smile to his face, he stood and gestured to the door. “I believe it will be just the two of us once again.” He paused, frowning. “Unless you prefer to wait--”

“No,” Winchester said quickly. “We don’t want a repeat performance of my brother and Mr. Tran displaying their superior knowledge and inferior manners.”

Laughing, Castiel nodded. “A fair point.” He stepped aside to allow Winchester to precede him. “After you, then.”

The sun was warm, but there was a pleasantly cool breeze blowing across the grounds as Castiel led Winchester past the gardens and towards the wooded ridge that ran to the north of the house. “The path runs through the trees there,” he explained, “and curves around to the lake.”

“There’s a lake?” Winchester asked, looking rather pleased at the prospect.

“Of course,” Castiel replied. “It wouldn’t be a proper estate otherwise, now would it?”

Winchester’s smile remained in place, though it seemed more wry. “Ah, yes, propriety. Our protection and our curse.”

Castiel hummed in agreement as he began to climb up the slope towards the wilderness walk. “The lake in itself has no moral value, only aesthetic. But what we do with it--” He shrugged, affecting an air of innocence.

Winchester pressed a hand to his chest in mock-horror. “Never tell me you did anything as improper as jumping from a tree branch, or heavens forbid, splashing someone you went swimming with.”

“I never would have thought you lacked imagination,” Castiel said, just to watch Winchester sputter in protest. “I did all those things, of course, but I also deliberately overturned a boat with Anna inside.” Realizing how that might sound, he quickly added, “She could swim, of course. I was mischievous, not malicious.”

“Of course,” Winchester said, biting back a smile. “I’m shocked she’s ever forgiven you for that.”

“Oh, she had her revenge.” Castiel laughed, pausing just at the beginning of the trail through the trees. “It involved a great deal of mud and a terrible scolding from our governess.”

“My admiration for your sister grows by leaps and bounds,” Winchester murmured.

Castiel raised one eyebrow at him, and Winchester sputtered again, holding up his hands as though defending himself from the force of Castiel’s glare. “Not like that!”

“Good,” Castiel said. On further reflection, there was no reason for him to oppose Winchester having an interest in Anna. They were of a similar age, he was a more than respectable match, her year of mourning had ended, and Castiel knew without a doubt he would make a faithful and respectful husband. Nevertheless, he felt a deep relief knowing Winchester had no desire to court Anna.

Castiel guided Winchester along the winding trail, twigs snapping under their boots as they passed between patches of dappled sunlight. “My grandfather had this designed,” he said quietly, not wanting to break the calm beauty of their surroundings. “He had a passion for landscaping, and a number of grand plans for the park, but he died quite young, and most of them were never realized.”

“I’m sorry.” Winchester laid his hand on Castiel’s arm, but only for a moment. “Surely you could implement some of them?”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Heavens, no. Most of them are terrible. He was mad for the trend towards follies and fake ruins, and would have covered half the park in artfully crumbling temples if left unchecked.”

Winchester stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “This is quite sedate, though.”

“Yes.” Castiel gestured a bend in the path just ahead, where a stone bench was tucked. “It was his first success, and he planned to add more to it, but I confess I’m quite happy with where he left off.”

“The grounds at Lawrence Hall are similarly maintained,” Winchester said. “I’ve never taken too much of an interest in them, I admit. So long as the lake is well-stocked and the stables impeccable, I am content.” He shrugged. “I have been meaning to do something with the gardens. But I haven’t quite found the time.”

“Do you spend a great deal of time there?” Castiel asked. Casting his mind back over their previous conversations, he could not recall Winchester mentioning his estate. Only his childhood at the inn, his school days, and his current life in London.

“No,” Winchester admitted. “It still feels too grand for me, at times. Too unfamiliar. I’ve held the title for years now, and I’ve grown accustomed to much of what comes with it, but Lawrence Hall is the last step.”

Not without sympathy, Castiel said, “You know, you’ll never accustom yourself to it if you avoid it entirely.”

Winchester rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am aware.” He laughed, but Castiel thought he detected a note of bitterness in it. “Perhaps I’ll retire there to lick my wounds once you’ve jilted me.”

It hurt all the more for how unanticipated it was. Castiel felt the words like a blow to his chest, stealing his breath. He clenched his hands into tight fists, his nails digging sharply into his palms, and made no reply.

How could Winchester be so casual about the moment Castiel was dreading? The moment he would have to put an end to this charade he was becoming more and more attached to with every passing minute? 

To his credit, Winchester swiftly realized the effect his careless words had on Castiel. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “That was unkind of me.”

Castiel forced a smile to his face. “It’s forgotten,” he said, possibly the least truthful statement he had ever made in his life. “Perhaps on the way back to the house, we can take a tour through the gardens here and you can find some inspiration for your own. I refuse to lend you my gardener, though. He’s a marvel, and I will not share him.”

While they continued to discuss similarities and differences between Rexford and Lawrence Hall the rest of the way along the wilderness walk, the mood had shifted, and Castiel mourned the easy closeness they’d shared when they set out. They were once again retreating behind shields of politeness, the recourse of every gently-born person, and Castiel had never resented his upbringing more.

When they emerged from the trees and looked down on the lake, though, a most reckless thought sprang to his mind. He was warm from their walk, and the breeze had gentled. The lake beckoned clear and cool and carefree, and before he could change his mind, Castiel shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the ground beside him. 

“Shall we have another race?” he said, then took off down the hill towards the lake.

He heard Winchester’s shout of surprise, but ignored it. Soon enough, Castiel would have to do his duty to protect them both and bow out of the fake betrothal. Soon enough, he would have to let Winchester go and allow his name to protect him from real consequences. Until then, though, he would gladly shed the trappings of his title and the propriety that went along with them. 

The lake was cold, but Castiel didn’t hesitate. Leaving his boots at the shore, he waded out until the water lapped at his hips, then dove under, relishing the shock of it against his skin. When he emerged, blinking away the drops that clung to his eyelashes, he saw Winchester standing at the water’s edge, hands planted on his hips.

“You’re mad,” he declared. “The water can’t possibly be warm enough to swim in.”

“Not at all,” Castiel agreed. “But I refuse to let that stop me.” He tilted his head to the side, smirking. “Will you?”

Winchester swore quite vehemently. He was carrying Castiel’s coat in one hand, but he dropped it to the ground as he quickly peeled off his own. Castiel’s smile widened. He knew Winchester would be unable to resist a direct challenge.

Once he had removed his coat and boots, Winchester stepped tentatively into the water. “It’s bloody freezing,” he grumbled.

He had no right to look so endearing in a sulk. Castiel bit his lip as Winchester sucked in a deep breath, the water rising higher around his legs. “It’s easier if you go under sooner,” he advised.

Winchester looked like he would much rather head back to the shore, but holding Castiel’s gaze, he took one more deliberate step, then dove under.

He didn’t surface for a long moment, long enough that Castiel’s amusement began to fade. Just then, he felt a hand close over his ankle, and he was tugged back under the water with a startled shout. He surfaced, gasping, and met Winchester’s dancing eyes. 

“Surely you didn’t expect anything less,” he said.

“I suppose not,” Castiel said slowly, then sent a great wave of water splashing into Winchester’s face.

They chased each other around the lake, ducking and splashing and taunting one another until Castiel was certain he’d lost all feeling in his fingertips. Reluctantly, he held up his hands. “Truce?”

Winchester narrowed his eyes. “The first one to suggest a truce always has a nasty trick planned.”

“I’m pleased you recognize my potential for deviousness, but no tricks.” Castiel pressed his palm to his chest. “On my honour as a gentleman.”

The suspicion faded from Winchester’s expression, leaving something else, something soft and slightly sad. “Yes, well. We know how much that means to you.” He shook his head. “Very well. But I’m not turning my back on you until we’re on the shore.”

“Agreed.” The water was shallow enough that Castiel could stand, so he did, feeling Winchester’s eyes on his back all the way to the shore.

Once they emerged, they flopped down on the soft grass to allow the sun to both dry and warm them. “How on earth are we going to explain this to the others?” Winchester wondered aloud.

Castiel propped himself up on one elbow. “Are you suggesting they won’t believe the truth?”

Winchester snorted. “I wouldn’t.”

Castiel frowned. “Am I considered such a bore that no one would ever dream I act with some spontaneity?”

Opening his mouth, Winchester shut it again with an audible click. “Not a bore,” he said after an uncomfortably long pause. “But Milton, you must admit, you don’t act this way with everyone else.”

“No,” Castiel said softly. “I don’t.”

He lay there, letting the sun soak into his body, and considered the implications of that confession. By the time he felt dry enough to be presentable, he hadn’t reached any real conclusions. Or at least none he dared to acknowledge. 

And when they returned to the house, coats beneath their arms and breeches still damp, he smiled to himself as Winchester embellished the tale and made himself the instigator of their impromptu swim. No one doubted such mischief from him, and when he caught Castiel’s eye and winked at him, Castiel was surprised to find he didn’t care that it wasn’t true.

Because it felt like a secret, something for him and Winchester alone, and that was far more precious than the truth.

***

There was a slightly melancholy mood in the air during the last dinner, knowing the house party was drawing to a close. Castiel supposed he should be flattered that his guests had enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, and as much as he might have liked to invite them to extend their visit, he knew they had other obligations and commitments to return to in town.

He had never bothered to make a name for himself as a host, whether here or in London, but he knew he would treasure the memories of these past few days for years to come. He hoped his guests would as well, and as such, he was determined to close out the festivities in a memorable fashion.

With that in mind, Castiel rose to his feet as the last dishes were being cleared away. “I thought we might wish to pass the evening somewhat differently than cards or charades tonight,” he said. 

“But I was getting so good at charades!” Mrs. Hanscum called out.

Castiel smiled as a ripple of laughter ran along the table. “Well, we won’t rule it out entirely. But it occurred to me there’s a perfectly functional pianoforte in the music room, and surely some among us must have some musical talent.” He paused, grinning. “Unlike myself.”

The laughter was louder this time, but there was no malice in it. “Mr. Tran? Henriksen? Miss Turner? Any volunteers?”

“I’m reasonably proficient,” Miss Turner said. She cast a stern glare at Mr. Tran and Mr. Campbell. “I would be happy to play for you, so long as I’m permitted to do so without well-meaning but ultimately undermining commentary.”

Both Tran and Campbell gaped at her, while Mrs. Hanscum and Mrs. Tran shared a delighted look and raised their glasses in a toast. Balthazar smirked, Benny’s eyes twinkled, and Winchester-- Winchester’s smile lit up the entire room.

Rounding the table, Castiel offered his arm. “Shall we?”

His hand was warm and solid, curling around Castiel’s elbow like it belonged there. “Indeed.”

They led the others into the music room, scattering to various seats while Miss Turner took her position at the pianoforte and flexed her fingers. Quite clearly cowed into silence, the two young gentlemen hovered at the edge of the room as though ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Castiel exchanged an amused look with Winchester as they took their places on two of the armchairs closest to Miss Turner. “Whenever you’re ready,” Castiel told her.

With a brief, brilliant smile, she began to play a sprightly tune. Castiel gave the music his full attention, pleased at the way the sound filled the room. He hadn’t heard the pianoforte played in some time, not since Hannah’s last visit, and he had forgotten how much he enjoyed hearing a talented musician make use of it.

When the tune ended, the room broke into warm applause and calls for more. Miss Turner flushed prettily and began another song, something slightly slower and more delicate. Castiel closed his eyes and let the notes wash over him. Though he had little musical talent himself, he appreciated it in others, and Miss Turner had been charmingly modest about her abilities. She was more than commonly skilled. 

He told her so at the end of that piece. “You play beautifully,” he said. “Thank you for sharing your talent with us.”

“Thank you,” she replied, eyes dancing. “In truth, I had admired the instrument when you first showed us this room, and I’m honoured to have been granted the opportunity to play on it.”

“Then you must continue to do so,” he said. “If you wish, of course.”

“Of course.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “But it hardly seems fair to steal all the attention. Surely, someone else has some skill to share with us?”

Castiel looked around the room. Mrs. Tran was shaking her head with a look of horror, Benny and Henriksen were avoiding eye contact, and Balthazar wore a rueful expression that suggested he would make Castiel happy but would be owed a debt in return. 

“My brother sings,” Mr. Campell said abruptly. 

Winchester let out a sharp hiss, but when Castiel turned to look at him, surprised, Winchester just shrugged. “I can carry a tune,” he admitted. 

“A duet, then?” Mrs. Hanscum suggested. “I would say the same of myself.”

“Please.” Castiel held Winchester’s gaze. “I would very much like to hear you sing.”

One corner of Winchester’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Very well, then.” 

Crossing the room, he extended a gallant hand to Mrs. Hanscum and pulled her to her feet, then leaned in to whisper something in her ear. A broad smile stretched across her face as he led her to stand at the pianoforte before bending to say something to Miss Turner. She let out a sharp laugh and nodded enthusiastically.

Castiel tilted his head to the side and sent Campbell an inquisitive look, but was only given a shrug in reply.

The moment Winchester started singing, he understood.

His voice was pleasant, melodious and strong without being strident, but it was the song that truly caught Castiel’s attention: a rather bawdy tune more suited to a taproom than an estate like Rexford.

Then again, that was exactly the sort of environment Winchester had been raised in.

Castiel dropped his chin into his hand and felt a flush rising in his cheeks. Really, he ought to put a stop to this, for the sake of the ladies-- but Mrs. Hanscum joined in with true enthusiasm and clear familiarity with the lyrics, Miss Turner played on with remarkable composure, and Mrs. Tran looked like she was about to rise to her feet and start a country dance. It was, shockingly, the most fitting choice Winchester could have made, perfectly suited to the intimate, relaxed atmosphere Castiel had cultivated over the past few days.

By the time the second verse began, most of the room had joined in. Castiel didn’t know the words, but he obligingly clapped along to the beat and joined in the thunderous applause that started as Winchester and Mrs. Hanscum let the final note hang in the air. They were both grinning broadly, making exaggerated bows and curtsies, and when Winchester caught Castiel’s eye, he winked.

Castiel shook his head, but he smiled as he did, and mouthed the word, “Wretch.”

They sang a few more folk songs, simple tunes that showcased the sweetness of their voices blending together. Eventually, though, Castiel noticed several drooping pairs of eyes, and suggested they choose one last song to end the evening.

Mrs. Hanscum shook her head when Winchester asked if she had any suggestions. He glanced at Castiel, expression unreadable, then bent his head to ask Miss Turner a question. She nodded rapidly, and a sweet, plaintive melody sprang from her fingertips. 

If Winchester’s earlier performances had seemed calculated for maximum enjoyment, this was him stripped of all artifice. He clasped his hands loosely before him as he sang, and Mrs. Hanscum nodded along quietly at his side. This, it appeared, was no duet, and Winchester’s voice shone purely on its own merit, accompanied only by Miss Turner’s playing. 

He had more than a modest ability as well. His voice tore at something in Castiel’s chest, turned all the nameless longing he felt into pure melody. His voice rose and fell like the waves on the sea, sweeping Castiel away with yearning. 

Difficult as it was, Castiel dragged his eyes away from Winchester to observe the reactions of the others. Campbell was watching with a satisfied smile, pride radiating from his very posture. Mr. Tran was looking at Winchester like he’d never seen him before in his life, as was Henriksen. Mrs. Tran had one hand pressed to her chest, eyes closed as she swayed slightly. And though there was still a respectful distance between them, Castiel could see that Balthazar and Benny were discreetly clasping each other’s hands, Balthazar’s face softer than Castiel had seen it in years.

There was magic in this room, and Winchester was its source.

In that instant, Castiel understood one thing to be true: he wanted Winchester here with him, in this room, in this house, in his too-wide bed in the ducal chambers. Not just for a few days, but forever. 

He wanted their betrothal to be real.

The last lingering note hung in the air, and Winchester opened his eyes and looked directly at Castiel. Overwhelmed by his realization, all Castiel could do was nod, throat tight with emotion as the others burst into rapturous applause. 

“Good god, man, where did you learn to sing like that?” Henriksen demanded.

Winchester shrugged. “It was my mother’s favourite song,” he said. “She used to sing it as a lullaby.” 

Castiel found his voice. “Thank you for sharing it with us,” he said quietly. “It’s only fitting that we retire now, isn’t it?”

A smile lit Winchester’s eyes. “Indeed,” he agreed. 

With a chorus of goodnights, the others slowly left the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel could see Winchester lingering by the door, and he wanted to go to him, but Balthazar was proving an efficient distraction. By the time Castiel wrenched his attention away, Winchester had slipped out.

“Finally,” Balthazar exclaimed, settling himself on the edge of an armchair. “Now, Castiel. What’s this all about?”

Castiel frowned. They were alone in the room, clearly by Balthazar’s design, but he had no idea what his friend meant by that cryptic statement. “I don’t follow.”

“Come on, Cas, you’re more clever than that.”

When Castiel continued to stare blankly at him, Balthazar heaved an enormous sigh and patted the seat of the chair. Confused, but willing to be illuminated, Castiel sat.

“Now,” Balthazar said patiently, “would you like to tell me why you were staring at Winchester like a drowning man glimpsing land?”

A warm flush rose in Castiel’s cheeks. “You do realize we’re betrothed,” he said lightly. “Is it such a sin, to admire one’s intended when they display a previously unknown talent?”

“That wasn’t what you were doing and we both know it,” Balthazar said, though not unkindly. “You looked like a drowning man glimpsing land and knowing he wouldn’t last long enough to reach it. Like everything you wanted was close enough to see but not to touch.” His voice gentled. “You can tell me, Cas.”

Castiel wanted to. He wanted to confess the truth, but to do so would be a betrayal. He and Winchester had agreed they would tell no one of their plan, and while Castiel trusted Balthazar completely, he couldn’t bring himself to knowingly break his promise to Winchester.

“I can’t,” he said. 

Balthazar’s eyes narrowed. “But you don’t deny it.”

Lips pressed tightly together, Castiel shook his head. There was no sense protesting. Balthazar would see through him in an instant, as he already had.

Sighing heavily, Balthazar reached down to squeeze Castiel’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, you’ll pull through it.” A smile softened his features. “Look at Benny and I. We’re doing rather well, all things considered.”

Despite himself, Castiel matched the smile. “I know. I saw you two, while Winchester was singing. I’m happy for you, Balthazar.”

“And I wish the same happiness for you,” his friend said. “Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile as much as you have these past few days. Having Winchester here quite clearly agrees with you.”

Castiel made a choke sound somewhere between a laugh and sob as Balthazar continued. “Just talk to him, Cas. It’s a miracle, what an honest conversation can accomplish.”

“I can’t,” he said again. He refused to impose his feelings on Winchester, who had never asked for anything more than Castiel’s cooperation in this mad scheme of his, and it was drawing to a close. “He belongs in London, and--” His voice lowered to barely a whisper. “We’re too different, he and I.”

Sighing, Balthazar got to his feet just a creak sounded outside the music room. “You are the most stubborn man I know, I swear. I can see there’s no reasoning with you, and the servants are probably waiting to clear the room,” he said. “To bed, then?”

“Yes.” Castiel rose and passed a hand through his hair, pausing at the door. “Thank you,” he said quietly. 

“Of course.” Balthazar ruffled his hair, undoing Castiel’s efforts to smooth it. “You know I’m always here for you, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel said with a lopsided smile. “Now, off with you. Your husband is waiting.”

Balthazar snorted. “He’s far more likely to be snoring already.” The affection was clear in his tone, and as delighted as Castiel was that his friend’s marriage was turning out so well, he couldn’t help the envy that coiled around his heart. What might it be like, knowing Winchester was waiting for him in their bed? Awake or asleep, warm and soft and Castiel’s to have and to hold?

He would never know. Instead, he climbed the stairs to his chamber and laid awake long past midnight, staring out the window at the brilliant moon with the soft echo of Winchester’s voice singing lullabies in his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Even if he had wanted a moment alone with Milton-- which he didn’t-- Dean would have been unable to gain one in the hustle and bustle of their departure.

No, that chance had passed. After the others had left the music room the night before, Dean had escorted the ladies upstairs, then lingered in the hall until all the bedroom doors had shut. Then, he’d crept quietly back down the stairs, hoping to sneak past Silverton’s notice and slip into the music room with Milton.

For what, he still wasn’t entirely sure. A conversation? A kiss? All he knew was that he hadn’t been ready to let that enchanted evening end.

Until it had, with a knife twisted in his heart at Milton’s words, overheard through the door. 

_We’re too different, he and I._

Upon hearing that bleak statement, Dean had slowly lowered his forehead to rest against the wooden door, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply before turning away and attempting a dignified retreat, flinching at the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. 

Now, his bags were packed and the carriage waited outside, but Dean found himself reluctant to leave. 

Sam was already chattering away about his plans for their return to London, and Dean smiled and nodded despite his total lack of interest in the topic. His gaze kept straying to Milton, who was saying his farewells to Mrs. Hanscum and Victor, every inch the perfect host.

Dean wanted to grab him by the collar and demand an explanation, but even he was not that rude. 

Finally, all the others had left, and Dean’s own traveling companions had expressed their gratitude to Milton for his hospitality. With a sly look, Mrs. Tran ushered Sam and Kevin out to the waiting carriage, practically beaming at Dean as she did. 

There was no way he could slip away unnoticed. Milton was watching him with the characteristic intensity that normally made Dean’s spine tingle in a most pleasant way, and then he stepped closer, one hand lifting as though to reach for Dean. 

Dean took a step back.

There was no mistaking the hurt that flashed across Milton’s features, but he composed himself swiftly. In truth, it was an error on Dean’s part. Milton owed him nothing. This betrothal was a sham he had committed to for a certain length of time, and if Dean happened to have made a muddle of himself over it, that was his problem alone. Milton had been nothing but friendly and cordial and generous with him. It was not his fault Dean was tortured by thoughts of what it might be like to kiss him again, to sing him to sleep at night, to spend long lazy days swimming in the lake and making love on the shore.

But this was not his home, and it never would be. Soon enough, he would be back where he belonged, and Milton would stay here, where he did. 

“Well,” Milton said eventually. “I suppose this is farewell.”

Dean swallowed roughly, only managing a nod in response.

“I plan to return to London within the fortnight,” Milton continued, eyes still locked on Dean’s face. “We can discuss the”-- he hesitated, his gaze wandering-- “next steps at that point.”

It might hurt less to end the charade now, but Dean knew Milton was right. They needed to maintain the illusion at least a little bit longer, until the Season died down and the gossips became preoccupied with something else. He hated everything about Milton’s brisk, businesslike tone, but he ought to be thankful one of them was able to view the matter dispassionately.

“You’ll let me know when you arrive in town?” he asked.

“Of course.” Milton dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”

Words could never express just how much Dean had enjoyed it. How little he wanted to leave. “It was very pleasant,” he replied, and hated himself for the empty phrase. 

The closeness he’d felt between them in the portrait gallery or down by the lake was gone. Dean didn’t know what to say, and Milton was once again the polished aristocrat, the one Dean loved nothing better than to unravel until the man beneath was revealed. But he gave no hint he would be amenable to such a progression. 

He liked his solitary life here, Dean knew. He could act the host because his position demanded it, but perhaps he’d simply reached his breaking point. He had done his duty, and now he was quite ready to see the last of his guests gone.

Well, Dean would not impose on him any longer. 

Squaring his shoulders, he held out his hand. A look of surprise crossed Milton’s face, but he took it, shaking it firmly. “Safe travels,” he murmured.

Refusing to allow the movement to become a caress, Dean withdrew his hand. “If anything happens to the carriage, I’ll ensure I fall on top of my brother. He’s quite large enough to break my fall,” he quipped.

Milton smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and in that moment, Dean knew there was no hope. Enforced proximity might have created a temporary closeness, but it was gone now, and he would never again see Milton smile the way he had on Dean’s first day here.

“Goodbye,” Milton said softly, and not trusting himself to speak, Dean only nodded before turning sharply on his heel and making for the carriage.

He did not look back as they passed through the gates, and if he flinched when they clanged shut behind the carriage, he did not allow anyone to see it.

***

There was a rather impressive stack of invitations awaiting him in his study upon his return to London, and though Dean briefly considered sweeping them all to the floor or tossing them into the fire, he sat down and reviewed each one. After an hour, he had arranged a social calendar that would be the envy of any member of the ton, and he set about drafting his replies with vicious satisfaction.

His anger had grown during the long carriage ride back to town, and it had not dissipated after a restless night back in his own bed. He woke to feel it still, a black thing coiled in his chest. Every accepted invitation was a rude gesture in the general direction of Rexford and its infuriating, impossible owner. If he thought London was where Dean-- empty, shallow, charming Dean-- belonged, then by God, Dean would prove him correct. He would gamble and race and drink until dawn. He would flirt with married ladies and bat his eyes at unmarried gentlemen, and no one would think anything of it, because that was what Viscount Winchester did, and why would a small matter like a betrothal to one of the most powerful men in the country change that?

With his self-righteous indignation burning brightly in his chest, Dean set out to have the most perfect day a young, wealthy gentleman of London could have.

He had the grooms saddle his favourite horse and took himself off to Hyde Park. He knew he cut a dashing figure on horseback, and he did nothing to discourage the admiring glances thrown his way. He kissed gloved fingertips and tipped his hat to choruses of amused laughter. He employed smiles like sabre thrusts and compliments like bullets fired with perfect aim. More than once, he heard a soft sigh echo as he moved from one group of acquaintances to another, or felt a pair of longing eyes on his back as he turned away.

Once the crowds began to thin and there was no one left to charm, he turned his horse back towards Winchester House. “Bobby,” he called as he entered, peeling off his gloves, “have a bath drawn for me in my chambers.”

“No need to ask for what’s so clearly needed,” his butler grumbled, crinkling his nose. “Can’t go to dinner smelling of horse, can you?”

“No, I cannot,” Dean agreed. “Is Sam at home?”

Bobby shook his head. “He’s off with some of those friends of his. At the museum, I believe.” 

“Good.” It was just as well Sam didn’t bear witness to Dean’s activities. His disapproval would be both loud and unwarranted. “If we have any callers, I am not receiving.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bobby inclined his head, the closest he came to a gesture of proper respect, and whisked himself away as Dean climbed the stairs to his chambers. 

Only moments later, Dean was submerged in a tub of steaming water, contemplating the next phase of his plan. He had accepted an invitation to dine with his old friend Celeste and her wife, and then to accompany them to a musicale at the home of one of their acquaintances. If it ended at a reasonable hour, he would likely find himself at his club afterwards, drinking and playing cards until the early hours of the morning. 

He would keep himself busy, moving from one entertainment to the next with barely a pause to breathe, and he would not think of Milton at all.

His strategy served him well for the first few days, which he passed in a whirlwind of social activities. He barely saw his brother, since Sam tended to be rather more selective about his social calendar, but he passed nearly all his hours with companions both new and old. 

It was, he could admit, slightly tiresome, but he determined that it was necessary. After all, soon enough he would be cast off like a coat that no longer fit quite right, and if he wanted to have any chance of finding himself betrothed for real, he needed to cultivate some prospective relationships now. Not that anyone would know that was what he was doing. He never promised anything, never behaved in any way indiscreetly. He was simply, unreservedly charming, and if the entirety of London fell under his spell, well, he could only count it a victory.

Until the letter arrived. From the one man he most wanted to sweep off his feet. The one man who refused to give him that satisfaction.

It was nearly a week after his return from Rexford, and Dean barely glanced at the envelope before tearing it open. He’d given himself a rare break from his dizzying sequence of appointments to deal with a few matters of business, locking himself in his study for the afternoon to review his correspondence. He might be enjoying all that his wealth and position afforded him, but he would not shirk his responsibilities. He had already replied to a number of inquiries from his steward at Lawrence Hall and paid several bills, and was feeling quite pleased with himself as he picked up the next letter from the dwindling stack on his desk.

His eyes immediately dropped to the bold signature of the bottom of the page, and he tossed the letter aside as though he’d been scalded.

Milton. That one word, in a confident scrawl, robbed the breath from Dean’s lungs and left him floundering. Tentatively, Dean picked the letter back up, but held it at a distance as he willed his racing heart to settle. 

_My lord Winchester,_

_I hope this message finds you well, and that you will forgive me for sending it unasked for. I comfort myself with the thought that you, of all people, will be amused by the impropriety of it._

_Having been several days without your company, I merely seek to confirm what I hope to be true: that you have made a safe return to London and that you are in good health and spirits. Business will keep me here in Rexford a while longer, but I look forward to our reunion soon._

_Milton._

Dean read it three times, then took the envelope and shook it, half-hoping a second, more emotional missive might be hidden inside. But there was nothing, just these two polite paragraphs. Aside from that one quip at the beginning, it was the most blandly impersonal letter Dean had ever received. Especially from someone he had kissed so thoroughly. 

“How dare he,” he said out loud. “How dare he write to me, how dare he be so bloody proper and correct, writing to his betrothed”-- the last said with all the mockery he was capable of, which was a not-insubstantial amount-- “to inquire after his health.”

His hands were shaking, he noted with some surprise. He gripped the letter as though he might tear it apart, but something stopped him, and he shoved it into a drawer of his desk instead, where he would not be tempted to inflict unnecessary violence upon it. 

He would not answer it, he swore to himself. Let Milton wonder. Dean owed him the courtesy of a reply, it was true, but had Milton not made reference to his casual disregard for society’s rules? By not replying, at least not immediately, he would only be living up to Milton’s expectations of him. 

A light knock on the door roused Dean from his thoughts. “Yes?” he called.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Krissy said, her eyes wide as she peered in. “I heard a shout.”

Dean massaged his forehead with his fingertips and managed a tight smile. “It was nothing,” he said.

Krissy gave him a doubtful look. “Shall I send for some tea? Or something stronger?”

He almost laughed. “No, thank you.” He glanced at the clock and saw that most of the afternoon had elapsed. “I will be dining out this evening,” he announced. He’d had no plans to do so, but he could not sit in this house a minute longer than he had to. Not when his club offered congenial company and fine brandy and a way to pass the hours until the Barnes ball. “Have the carriage ready in an hour, will you?”

She bobbed a slight curtsey. “Yes, my lord.”

Dean dismissed her with a wave of his hand. She would report back to Bobby, and Bobby would grumble and prod at him, and if he were particularly unsatisfied with Dean’s responses, he would inform Sam, and then Sam would attempt to convince Dean to talk. It was a predictable pattern, and the best way to forestall it was to be away from the house for as long as possible.

Hence, dinner at his club.

An hour later, bathed and dressed in his best, he sailed out the door and into his waiting carriage. It was only a short distance to White’s, and as he’d hoped, there were a number of other single gentlemen taking the opportunity to dine there before moving on to their evening engagements. Dean looked around for Benny’s broad frame and breathed a sigh of relief when he could not spot him, knowing his friend would read the hard glitter in his eyes and correctly assume Dean was out of sorts. Instead, he caught a friendly smile from Mr. Cesar Cuevas and crossed the room to join him and his husband Jesse. They were exactly the sort of acquaintances with whom he could pass a pleasant supper without worrying that they would raise topics of a personal nature. 

Unfortunately, they were not attending the Barnes ball, so Dean arrived alone. He greeted his hostess with genuine pleasure, promising her at least one dance before stepping aside as the line grew behind him. 

Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman, Dean surveyed the ballroom. He had spent almost every night of the past week in a place just like this, filled with many of the same people. While he would never dismiss such gatherings entirely, he could admit that he was becoming somewhat weary of the same dances, the same faces, the same music and carefully timed order of events. What this ball truly needed, he thought, was something to liven it up. Some scandal that did not involve him. It would serve the dual purpose of keeping him entertained while also distracting the gossips for weeks to come, and when it came time to break Dean’s engagement--

He shook that thought aside. While it was the driving force behind his presence here tonight, he had no wish to let it consume him. He would not think of what it might be like to have Milton on his arm, to exchange amused glances with him over the heads of some of the sillier young lords and ladies, to dance with him and feel the heat of his body so near. 

Quickly draining his glass, Dean groaned inwardly as he locked eyes with Lady Hael across the crowded ballroom. Her face lit up with delight, and as much as Dean would have preferred to flee, it would be terribly ungallant of him to give the cut to a lady, especially one he rather liked. And to whose brother he was supposedly betrothed.

Crossing the room, he met Lady Hael halfway and raised her extended hand to his lips. “How lovely to see you,” he said. “And how lovely you look this evening, my lady.”

Hael covered a giggle with her free hand. “Oh, Lord Winchester, you do know how to compliment a lady. It’s marvelous to see you as well. I can’t imagine what Castiel thinks is more important than being at your side tonight, but”-- she shrugged, clearly uninterested in her brother’s absence-- “I suppose that means you might have a dance free for me?”

“Hael,” Lady Hannah hissed, having approached just in time to hear her twin’s last remark, “it is improper to ask a gentleman to dance with you.”

“I’ve always thought that a silly rule,” Dean said, smiling at them both. “If a lady might ask another lady, and a gentleman might ask another gentleman, why should a lady not ask a gentleman?”

Hael crowed in delight. “Precisely!”

A small frown crossed Hannah’s face, but she nodded. “You make a solid argument, Lord Winchester.”

Dean leaned in closer. “But to observe the proprieties you are so fond of, Lady Hannah-- will you save a dance for me as well?”

She really was lovely when she smiled, and a faint flush stained her fair skin as she accepted. After a few more polite remarks, Dean moved away to allow the ladies to converse with some of their acquaintances. As much as he did not wish to think of Milton, he would keep an eye on his sisters in the duke’s absence. They were bright, charming young ladies, and while his betrothal to Milton might be fake, his fondness for them was not. 

He would have liked to call them his sisters. 

With that troubling thought in mind, Dean didn’t notice a familiar figure coming to stand at his side. “You’re looking unusually pensive,” Benny said, voice low. “Where is the fabled Winchester charm?”

Dean swore under his breath as he twisted to look at his friend. “I hardly think I need it for you,” he replied. “I’m saving it for a more receptive audience.”

Benny smiled slowly. “Unfortunately, I have it on good authority that Milton is not here tonight.”

“No,” Dean snapped, “he is not.”

A deep rumble of laughter rose from Benny’s chest. “And is that why you’re so testy? Pining for your absent love?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again, scowling. Benny was not far from the mark, though not in the way he assumed, and Dean was thoroughly unimpressed at how easily his friend read him. 

“And where is yours?” he asked archly. “Tired of Silverton already, are you?”

Benny’s face went still, and Dean winced. He knew that careful expression, the pointed neutrality that meant he had scored a hit. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “That was cruel.”

Lips thin, Benny nodded. “It was. And to answer your question, he is there--” Benny pointed in the direction of the refreshments table-- “acquiring beverages for the three of us.”

Dean didn’t know how much lower he could possibly sink. “Benny--”

“I recognize that you have had difficulty reconciling yourself to my marriage,” Benny continued, his eyes piercing, “but I will not stand for your insults against him any longer, Dean. Not even knowing they come from a place of concern for me.”

“I am sorry,” Dean said again. He swallowed roughly and laid a hand on Benny’s shoulder. “But I must raise the matter one final time.”

Benny nodded stiffly.

“Just tell me this,” Dean continued. “Are you happy?”

The tension drained from Benny’s body, and a soft smile stole over his face. He looked away from Dean, and following his gaze, Dean saw a familiar sandy head moving towards them. 

“I am,” Benny answered, though the words were redundant by then. Dean had his reply in that one look. 

“Then I will do my best to be charming,” Dean said firmly.

And he did. He was polite to Silverton, whose eyes narrowed at the unusual warmth of Dean’s greeting as though sensing a trap. Hating himself for provoking that justified reaction, he determinedly focused his conversation on Silverton, leaving Benny to stand with a small smile on his face as he watched them interact, only occasionally interjecting. Eventually, the suspicion faded from Silverton’s eyes, and by the time the dancing began, Dean was fairly certain he had made a new friend.

He danced with Lady Barnes, with Benny, with both of the twins, with others both familiar and not. He smiled all the while and he did not miss a step, not until he was dancing with Silverton and he brought up the last evening they had spent at Rexford.

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past,” Silverton drawled as he spun Dean in a twirl, “but I must say, you’re good for Castiel. I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you.”

Dean’s heart gave a foolish leap in his chest before he ruthlessly suppressed it. “I’m certain you’re exaggerating.”

Silverton shook his head. “While I do have a tendency to do just that, I assure you, in this case I am not.” His face turned serious, and he seemed to hesitate before continuing. “I do not presume to know the details of your relationship--” while there was clearly a rebuke there, it was a gentle one-- “but please believe I only mean you well when I advise patience.” His gaze strayed across the room, and Dean knew he was looking at Benny. “These things take time.”

The music ended, sparing Dean from the need to reply. Throat tight, he made a low bow, which Silverton returned, and then, heedless of how it might appear, he fled.

The ballroom was too stuffy, too crowded. Slipping through the French doors, he found himself on the terrace, pushing aside the recollection of other moments just like this, ones in which Milton occupied the space beside him and not just the space in his mind. Fortunately, all the other guests were indoors, enjoying a waltz, and Dean was able to take a deep breath as he settled onto a stone bench and groaned aloud. 

He could not make sense of everything that had happened with Milton. At first, it was pure physical attraction. Stronger than normal, yes, but well within the realm of Dean’s experience. But beyond that-- he did not know when they veered off course, when they reached uncharted territory. When he found himself wishing they had a future together. 

Silverton seemed to be implying that Milton felt the same, but Dean kept revisiting the memory of that overheard conversation in his mind. Milton’s finer feelings might not matter in the end if he truly thought he and Dean were ill-suited. And Dean had too much pride to beg him to take a chance on them, even when it was what he wanted so desperately. 

A small sound broke through his reverie, and Dean looked up to see Lady Bellmore staring at him, eyes wide in her pale face. She came to a sudden halt, uncharacteristically dishevelled and distraught, and Dean immediately rose to his feet and stepped towards her.

“My lady,” he said swiftly, “is something amiss?”

With a shaky sigh, she passed one hand over her face. “My lord. I suppose there’s no sense attempting to deny it.”

Taking another step forward, Dean stretched out his hand. He could not discern the source of her distress, and would not touch her uninvited. But she managed a lopsided smile as she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to steer her to his recently-vacated bench. He stood beside her, letting her collect herself despite the concern flooding through him.

“Is there someone I ought to be calling out in your brother’s absence?” he asked after a moment.

She looked up, startled, and shook her head. “Goodness. No. No, my lord, I am unharmed. And if I am perhaps a trifle overwrought”-- she shook her head grimly-- “I think it is my own fault.”

Dean nodded slowly. “I will not press the matter,” he said. “But if there is anything I can do--”

“Just stay with me for a moment,” she said quickly. “Please.”

“Of course.” Dean leaned against the railing and kept watch on the doors, hoping no one else would emerge from the ballroom. Fortunately, they were spared any interruptions, and soon enough, Lady Bellmore drew in a deep breath and rose to her feet. 

“I believe I am ready to return to the ballroom, Lord Winchester, if you would be so good as to escort me?”

Dean bowed. “Yes, my lady. But you might wish to--” He coughed, raising a hand to wave around his head.

“Oh!” She let loose a most unladylike curse and swiftly made a few adjustments to her hair, pinning errant locks back up until it was perfectly coiffed once more. “Better?”

“Much.” Offering his arm, Dean steered her towards the doors. “Shall I bring you to your mother and sisters?”

“Please. I suspect I will depart shortly, but for now--” She shrugged. 

Catching sight of the Dowager Duchess, Dean headed in that direction. “Thank you,” Lady Bellmore said quietly as they crossed the room. “For your discretion.”

“You may count on me for that,” Dean replied, smiling down at her. “And for a willing ear, should you ever need one.”

Tilting her head to the side, she gave him a thoughtful look. “And I would be glad to offer the same.”

Dean laughed. “Why might I need such a thing?”

Her lips curled up in a wry smile. “There are only two reasons one flees to the terrace in the middle of a ball, and if one is unaccompanied at the time, it eliminates one of those reasons.”

Dipping his head in acknowledgment, Dean bowed as he left her within sight of her family. “My lady.”

“My lord.” Her curtsey was perfect, her posture straight, and she gave no sign whatsoever of her earlier distress. Dean watched her fold herself into the conversation with a combination of bafflement and awe, wondering if all ladies were taught such self-possession or if it was an Allen family trait.

On that troubling thought, he made his farewells to Lady Barnes and set off for home, where he proceeded to sit in his study, slowly polishing off a decanter of brandy, until the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky.


	10. Chapter 10

All his life, whenever he was away from Rexford, Castiel had wished himself back in these familiar halls. Now, for the first time, he found himself hating the vastness of the house, the stillness of the corridors, the empty seats at the table in the formal dining room. The quiet no longer felt comfortable but oppressive, and his solitude slid quite rapidly into unmistakable loneliness. 

He tried to convince himself it was the inevitable adjustment period following the house party, but he knew in his heart it was simpler than that. It was not all his guests that he missed, just one particularly enchanting, irrepressible, captivating man. 

In retrospect, inviting Winchester had been a terrible idea. His presence lingered in the halls like the aftertaste of brandy in one’s throat: warm and rich and always making one crave more. Castiel found himself avoiding the places that held the most vibrant memories of Winchester’s presence: the breakfast room, the music room, the portrait gallery. When he rode out in the mornings, he rode in the opposite direction they had raced. When his restless energy sent him out to stretch his legs, he eschewed the wilderness walk and skirted around the lake. 

It was, in the end, a futile exercise. He couldn’t simply dismiss Winchester from his mind, no matter how he tried. Their parting had been one of the most painful and awkward experiences of Castiel’s life, and he knew he hadn’t handled it particularly well, retreating into stiff politeness to mask his true feelings. There had been so little genuine warmth in their parting that Castiel wondered if he had imagined the closeness between them over those five days here at Rexford. 

He let the matter rest for nearly a week, throwing himself into the business of running his estate, spending long hours in consultation with his steward and playing host to local friends like the vicar and his wife. In doing so, however, he embroiled himself in detailed discussions regarding some of the other properties that came along with the ducal title, and soon realized he hadn’t paid nearly as much attention to them as he had to Rexford. 

It would have been entirely unremarkable of him to hand the matters back to his stewards, all of whom were highly competent and could easily run his various estates without his interference. He could direct them to address any crucial matters to him in London and be back at Winchester’s side within the day.

If he had been sure of his reception, he would have done just that.

Instead, he penned a short and completely craven note, addressed it to Winchester House in London, and arranged a series of further meetings with his stewards.

On the eighth day after the house guests departed, Castiel was in the middle of such a meeting when his butler knocked discreetly on his study door. Raising a hand to pause the current speaker, Castiel called out, “Enter!”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the butler said with a smooth bow. “But you have a visitor. A Mrs. Jody Mills. I’ve shown her to the yellow drawing room.”

Only years of practice kept Castiel from betraying his utter shock. “Gentlemen,” he said, rising to his feet, “I do apologize for the interruption, but might we continue this conversation at a later date? I ought not to keep the lady waiting.”

A chorus of polite replies and smiles assured him no feelings were injured, and Castiel swept out of the room after the butler. What on earth was Mrs. Mills doing here? Her inn was several hours’ ride away, and she didn’t seem the type to take an unplanned trip--

Castiel stumbled on the stairs, catching himself on the railing just in time to keep from pitching forward completely. Something had happened to Winchester. It was the only explanation. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he composed his features as the butler opened the door to the yellow drawing room. Mrs. Mills rose to her feet, stretching out a hand, but instead of raising it to his lips, Castiel clasped it between both of his own.

“What happened?” he asked, voice raw. “Please. I must know.”

He didn’t even notice she wore a smile until he saw it begin to fade. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Castiel blinked at her. She was dressed for travel in a no-nonsense brown gown, and she wore an expression of confusion rather than grief. As he scrambled to process this, he slowly realized he may have overreacted.

Taking a step back, he released her hands and bowed. “My apologies, Mrs. Mills. I feared you had come bearing bad news.”

Her eyes widened, and she quickly shook her head. “No, nothing like that.” She considered him for a moment, then laughed. “Just like my Dean, you are. Always leaping to the most dramatic conclusions. You’ll have a tempestuous marriage, I’m sure, but that’s not such a bad thing.”

Castiel forced a laugh but winced inwardly. He had no doubt he and Winchester would have a tempestuous marriage, if only they had a marriage at all. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, then?” he asked, gesturing her to a seat and ringing for tea.

Mrs. Mills shrugged. “Sam wrote me a letter telling me how marvelous your house was and how much he enjoyed his stay here. I was planning to visit some friends in the area and thought I should pay you a call while here.” A mischievous smile lit her face. “After all, we are nearly family, and I do love to torment my boys by dropping in on them unannounced.”

Castiel’s chest went tight at the fondness in her tone and the implications of her words. “They’re lucky to have you,” he replied. “And I am delighted to see you, even unannounced.”

“Good.” She settled herself more comfortably on the sofa and fixed him with a discerning look. “But why are you still here and not back in London?”

She gave him a perfect opportunity to avoid answering. Castiel smiled and said, “You came to pay a surprise visit not even knowing if I was in residence?”

Her laugh told him she had done just that. “If you weren’t here, I simply would have poked around this impressive house of yours and made a number of assumptions about your character based on it.”

Castiel shuddered. “Well, then, I thank the fates that I am indeed here. While you will see traces of my character here, I might also remind you that it is a vast and ancient family home, and one cannot ever escape the generations that came before them, not fully.”

Mrs. Mills tilted her head in acknowledgment. “No,” she said softly. “You cannot.”

There was a slight pause while one of the maids brought in the tea and Castiel poured for the two of them. “Who is it you were visiting in the area?” he asked, genuinely curious. He knew most of the nearby landowners fairly well, and could not guess which family Mrs. Mills might have a previous acquaintance with. 

“Two of the girls who used to work at the inn with us married and moved here,” she explained. “Claire and Kaia. Kaia had some trouble with her family, but they’ve since reconciled, and she wanted to be closer to them.” A wistful expression crossed Mrs. Mills’ face. “They were nearly like daughters to me in the years after my sons moved away.”

Castiel remembered what Dean had said, how he wished he had sisters. Strange, to think that if he had not inherited his title, he might have stayed closer to the family home and found them in Claire and Kaia.

“I do not know the family,” he said apologetically. “But I imagine they will be very pleased to see you.” Lowering his voice, he leaned in closer. “The most important question, though, is: do they know to expect you?”

Mrs. Mills threw her head back and let loose an uproarious laugh. “Oh, well played, Milton. You are a sly one, aren’t you?”

Castiel flushed with pleasure and shrugged modestly. “I do my best.”

“Come.” Draining the last of her tea, Mrs. Mills rose to her feet. “I don’t have a great deal of time, so you’ll have to give me the abridged tour. I’d like to see more of the home my son will be sharing with you.”

Taking her arm, Castiel led her to the door. It was not her fault she kept raising the matter of his betrothal to her son. As far as she knew, it was real. So for at least a little while longer, Castiel would have to act as though it were.

He showed her the music room, praising Winchester’s talents and laughing at her tales of how he used to entertain the guests at the inn with his songs. He showed her the portrait gallery, hiding a smile as she exclaimed over the elaborate fashions of bygone years. Finally, he showed her the gardens, enjoying the fresh air after so long spent indoors.

“You have a truly lovely home,” she told him, bending to examine a yellow rose. “But more than that, I can see that you care deeply for it, and devote yourself to it.” Straightening, she gave a satisfied nod. “You will do the same with my son.”

It was both a statement and a command, if Castiel were not mistaken. He bowed and murmured, “I will,” knowing it was the expected response even as it broke his heart to make a promise he would be unable to keep.

Not through any desire of his own. If he could, he would devote himself to Lord Winchester, would care for him the rest of their days, just as his mother anticipated. There was a not-insignificant part of him that feared the day he would have to end the fake betrothal. He was quite certain Mrs. Mills would cheerfully eviscerate him for hurting her beloved son.

Reaching down, he plucked the yellow rose and gallantly offered it to Mrs. Mills. “A token of my esteem.”

She grinned at him, the expression so like Winchester’s that Castiel felt his heart leap in his chest. “Most kind of you, Milton. As much as I would like to continue to explore, I really ought to be on my way.”

“Of course.” Taking her arm once more, Castiel led her towards the front of the house where her carriage waited. “Thank you for your visit. It has truly been the highlight of my week.”

“I imagine it would be,” she said wryly. “Give my best to your mother and sisters, would you?”

Castiel bowed and lifted his hand in farewell as the driver snapped the reins and the carriage leapt into motion. Mrs. Mills leaned out the window, waving vigorously, and was soon lost from sight.

Sighing, Castiel made his way back inside, slowly climbing the steps to the second level and entering the library. Throwing himself into his comfortable, well-stuffed chair, he let loose a string of curses and muffled groans that would be sure to have the servants gossiping. 

If he were a less dutiful man, he could simply run away. Take up residence at one of his smaller estates and abandon this whole mad scheme. But as he was slowly beginning to realize, he could not rid himself of his feelings for Winchester, even in his absence. 

He could, however, avoid seeing him again for as long as possible, and so delay the complete and inevitable breaking of his own heart.

***

Two days later, Castiel was just finishing another long but satisfyingly productive meeting with his stewards when the door to his study flew open. Half-rising to his feet in an instinctive response, Castiel blinked when he saw Anna standing in the doorway, lips parted as though ready to launch into speech.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he murmured. “For yet another interruption. My sister, at least, had the good timing to wait until our business was concluded to burst in unannounced.”

He expected Anna to smile, to roll her eyes, or to make some sharp and witty retort. Instead, she just stared at him, wide-eyed, and Castiel’s surprise quickly turned to alarm. Sensing the change in the air, the stewards made their hasty farewells and edged out of the room past Anna.

She remained where she was, frozen, until Castiel slowly approached and pulled the door shut. She was dressed for travelling, in a gown that looked more comfortable than fashionable, and her hair had come undone from its once-elegant coiffure, now falling in disarray around her face.

“Anna?” Castiel asked softly. He hesitated, his awkwardness at war with his genuine concern. “Annie?”

He hadn’t called her by that childish nickname in years. Perhaps it was the surprise of hearing it now that startled her out of her daze, her eyebrows lowering as she shot Castiel a glare.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, the same thing she always said in response to that name.

Then she clenched her jaw, strode across the room, and rooted in Castiel’s desk until she found the bottle of French brandy he kept in the lowest drawer. Popping it open, she took a healthy swig before settling herself in his chair, feet propped on the edge of the desk.

More baffled than ever, Castiel raised an eyebrow in response. “Are you planning on sharing that?”

To her credit, Anna gave the question due consideration. “No,” she said eventually. “My guess is that you’ve replaced this bottle at least twice in the past week. It’s my turn now.”

Seeing as she was correct, Castiel made no further argument. It was clear Anna had no intention of relinquishing his comfortable chair, so he took a seat across from her and spread his hands wide. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I hate London,” Anna said shortly, taking another sip from the bottle. 

Castiel frowned. “That is news to me, seeing as you choose to spend nearly all your time there.”

She scowled at him, flapping her hand dismissively. “Yes, well, it’s different now.”

He waited, but she didn’t elaborate. As much as Castiel had no wish to play the overbearing older brother, Anna had burst into the house and into this room, clearly upset, and if she had truly wished not to discuss the matter, she could have simply taken the brandy and left.

Or, more likely, ordered him to leave.

But she was still here, and so was he. For the first time in years, it was just the two of them, and Castiel would be damned if he was going to fail her now.

“Tell me,” he said quietly.

Anna looked at him over the top of the bottle, eyes bright, and grimaced. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t seem to find the place to begin.

“Is it about a man?” Castiel asked, then corrected himself. “Or a woman?”

“More like a devil in woman’s form,” Anna muttered.

Castiel bit back a smile at her familiar grumbling. “I didn’t know you were, ah, courting anyone.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so missish, Castiel. I’m not some delicate virgin like the twins.”

Sputtering, Castiel made a face. “Then spare my sensibilities if not your own.”

“Oh, very well.” Anna shook her head, but a soft smile stole over her face. “Yes, I have indeed been _courting_ a young lady. And it was going well, despite our rather complicated circumstances.” She held up a hand as Castiel opened his mouth. “Which I will not be describing in detail, not due to your sensibilities but to my sense of honour. Secrets shared between ladies are sacrosanct.”

Castiel dipped his head in acknowledgment. “But then… ”

Anna shrugged, mouth twisting. “We had a disagreement.”

“And you fled here?”

“I didn’t flee--” 

Castiel gave her a disbelieving look, and she subsided. “Very well. Yes, I fled here. London isn’t large enough for the two of us, and”-- she caught herself just before she let a name slip past her lips-- “she doesn’t have access to as many places as I do. It seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

A warm feeling spread through Castiel, knowing that Anna considered Rexford a place of safety and refuge. “I’m glad you came here,” he said softly. “To me.”

A half-smile lit her face. “How long has it been since we truly talked, just the two of us?”

He didn’t have to consider his reply at all. “Years.”

Her smile faded. “What happened to us, Castiel?”

The answer to that was equally clear. “You got married.”

Anna sat up, eyes blazing, and Castiel held up his hand to cut her off. “And not long afterwards, I inherited.” Her expression calmed, and she shrugged as though accepting the truth of his statements. “We grew up, I suppose you could say.”

“But we didn’t need to grow apart.”

Castiel winced. “No,” he admitted. Crossing the room, he crouched down by her chair and took her hand in his. “Can we try again? We’ve made a good start already.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose. Though so far all the attention has been on me, and in the spirit of equality and true sibling support, let’s talk about you before we declare ourselves truly close once again.”

Rocking back on his heels, Castiel attempted a blank expression. “But there’s nothing to talk about. With me.”

Anna let out a derisive snort. “Come now. Credit me with more intelligence than that.”

Castiel sighed as he rose to his feet, snagging the brandy bottle from the desk as he did. “Fine. What is it, precisely, you think we need to discuss?”

“Why you’re moping around here, talking to _stewards_ , while your betrothed dances until dawn every night in London, a smile fixed on his face while his eyes remain nearly as sad as yours are right now.”

Her blunt statement knocked the breath from Castiel’s lungs. “He is unhappy?” he asked, voice raw. “But how can you--”

“I know, because I’ve practiced that same smile,” Anna replied. “Thrown myself into the whirlwind of society entertainments so I don’t have to dwell on my own misery. You may prefer to brood alone in your grand heap of a mansion, but Winchester and I--” she shrugged lightly-- “prefer more active methods of avoiding our emotions.”

Castiel raised the brandy bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. “I don’t know what to do with this information,” he said quietly, the burn of the brandy nothing compared to that of this admission. “I wrote to him, but he has not yet replied, and--”

Anna shook her head fiercely. “Let me guess. You wrote a polite note, likely inquiring after his health, and assumed he would sense your true feelings buried beneath to polite niceties?”

A slow flush crept over Castiel’s cheeks. “Yes.”

“For Heaven’s sake.” Her glare was equal parts exasperation and affection. “Castiel, you are so--” she trailed off, turning her eyes upwards as though seeking divine inspiration-- “so bloody dense sometimes.”

“I am trying to be--”

“No.” She sliced her hand sharply through the air. “You are being stubborn, and while you think you are being self-preserving, you are in fact being self-defeating.”

Castiel stared blankly at her. “I don’t understand.”

“This.” Anna waved her hands around the room. “The separation. It will not help matters. I don’t claim to understand the situation, but you are both clearly miserable, and the distance is doing you no good.” Her face softened in time with her tone. “Go to him, Castiel. That’s all you need to do.”

A brief flicker of hope burned in Castiel’s chest but was quickly extinguished. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes,” Anna said, “it is.”

Could it be? Could Castiel ride to London, demand to see Winchester, confront him about the strangeness of their leavetaking and the silence that had grown between them? He gnawed on his lower lip as he mulled it over. If Winchester said he was just starting the process of ending the engagement-- well, that was what they had planned to do, and it would result in Castiel’s heart breaking no matter what. 

But if there was a chance, even the tiniest sliver of hope that it could be otherwise--

“You fled here, putting exactly that distance between yourself and your young lady,” Castiel pointed out in a last-ditch effort to justify his behaviour. “Should you not take your own advice and speak to her face-to-face?”

Anna let out a sigh, slowly shaking her head from side to side. “No, Castiel,” she said, as though explaining mathematics to a small child. “You are permitted a certain amount of time to be an idiot, and then you must deal with your mess. Your allotted time is at its end, and mine is just beginning.”

Castiel had to laugh at that. “Is that so?”

She nodded firmly. “This house might be large, but it can only hold one broken-hearted Allen sibling at one time.” She winked at him.

“Are you throwing me out of my own home?”

“It’s for your own good. If you leave tomorrow morning, you can be in London by nightfall.”

“We’re expecting rain tomorrow,” Castiel said without thinking.

She gave him a pitying look. “And are you about to let that stop you?”

It would be an enormous loss of his dignity, if he confessed his feelings to Winchester and was given only cordial friendship in return. But Castiel had had rather enough of dignity. He longed for recklessness, for unanticipated swims in the lake, for winks across ballroom floors and soft lips pressed against his.

“No,” he said, heart pounding in his chest, “I am not.”


	11. Chapter 11

Dean was in the library, his velvet brocade dressing gown tossed over his shirt and breeches, enjoying a glass of wine and listening to the rain beat against the windowpanes. He held a book open on his lap, but had not yet read past the first sentence. Sam was out for the evening, and Dean had finally had enough of his endless entertainments and declined any invitations for this night. As foreign as they had become, the peace and quiet were welcome-- and then abruptly broken by a knock at the door.

Dean scowled, but called out, “Enter!”

Bobby stuck his head around the doorjamb, face impassive. “You have a caller, my lord.”

Glancing reflexively at the clock, Dean frowned. “At this hour?”

“I believe you will want to receive him,” Bobby replied.

Dean waited, but Bobby offered no further hints as to his unexpected guest’s identity. Sighing, Dean rose to his feet and tightened the sash of his dressing gown. “I’m shocked you allowed him in,” he muttered as he followed Bobby out of the library and down the stairs to the front hall. “Since you’re such a model butler and all.”

He could sense Bobby rolling his eyes even though he could only see the back of his head. “You’ll thank me later,” he grumbled as he clattered down the last step.

Dean’s reply died on his lips as the figure in the hall came into view. He heard Bobby’s slight cough as though from a great distance, sensed his quiet withdrawal, but all he could focus on was Milton, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes locked on Dean’s.

It took all of Dean’s strength of will not to throw himself forward and into Milton’s arms. He imitated the other man’s pose, which offered a perfect way to restrain himself. “This is a surprise,” he said, hating how bright and artificial the words came out.

A slight smile curled up Milton’s lips. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

“That remains yet to be seen.” Dean took a step closer, and only then realized that Milton was soaked to the bone, a small puddle forming on the black-and-white checked floor beneath him. “Good God, you’re drenched.”

“It’s raining,” Milton pointed out. 

“And don’t you have a carriage?”

Milton’s jaw tightened. “I did. I lost it to the mud a few miles outside town.”

Dean shook his head, trying to make sense of the absurdity of the situation. The very proper Duke of Milton was standing in his hallway, completely soaked, long past polite calling hours even for an ostensibly betrothed couple, apparently having ridden the last few miles to London. In the pouring rain.

Frowning to himself, Dean wondered just how much wine he had drunk before Bobby’s knock. He could have sworn it was only half a glass, but--

“What on Earth could be so important that you made such a journey?” he asked abruptly. 

Milton hesitated, eyes dropping the floor. “I was concerned about you,” he said, so quiet Dean could barely hear him. 

“Concerned about me?” Dean repeated. “What gave you cause?”

Looking up, Milton met his eyes only briefly. “You did not reply to my letter. And Anna said--” He trailed off, biting his lip.

Dean made a note to inquire as to when exactly Milton had spoken to Lady Bellmore, and what exactly she had said, but for now, he would not be distracted. “I have been busy,” he said haughtily. “There is much to do in London.”

“Yes,” Milton murmured, “so I hear.”

There was a new note in his voice, something Dean could not immediately identify, but he took a step back, eyes narrowing. “I beg your pardon if my enjoyment of my life has distressed you, Your Grace,” he sneered. “But seeing as we are not, in fact, engaged to be married, I fail to see how it is of any concern to you.”

Milton’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, and Dean flinched at the raw emotion in those blue depths. Milton opened his mouth, throat working as he clearly struggled for the right words, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing Dean’s attention to the way his shirt gaped at the neck, nearly translucent with dampness. 

Before Milton could reply, Dean held up his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely. “I have been unpardonably rude, leaving you to shiver in those wet things. It dismays even my sense of honour to argue with you when you look so pathetic.”

Milton’s lips twisted in a grimace, but he nodded. “I would appreciate a towel,” he said stiffly.

Before Dean could even ring the bell, Bobby materialized from further back in the hall. “I have some dry things set out in one of the guest chambers,” he said to Milton. Then, turning to Dean, “I will bring him to the library once he’s more comfortable.”

Dean nodded as graciously as he could, suddenly remembering that he was in his dressing gown. Grumbling to himself, he waited until Bobby and Milton had disappeared upstairs before following after them, tossing the heavy thing over the back of his chair in the library and pouring more wine. If they were to have this argument, they would do it at least somewhat properly dressed.

Pacing around the room, his anger grew. How dare Milton show up here so unexpectedly and immediately come off heavy-handed and judgmental? How dare he--

The door creaked open, and Dean whirled to meet the subject of his mental tirade, now dressed simply in a white shirt and buff breeches, his hair still slightly damp and tousled from a towel.

Dean’s mouth went dry. It was highly unfair, that Milton was so bloody attractive. It made everything so complicated-- as did his unexpected moments of levity, his concern for his family, the way his voice went soft in quiet moments between them.

Milton shut the door behind himself and raised one eyebrow. “Am I now suitably attired for an argument?”

Dean bit back a smile at the level of barely-restrained sarcasm in his voice. “Indeed,” he drawled. “And so, to resume: what concern is it of yours how I pass my time? After all”-- he had to work to keep the bitterness out of his tone-- “you were the one who decided to stay behind at Rexford. If you wanted to keep me under your surveillance, you ought to have come back to London sooner.”

A muscle jumped in Milton’s jaw. “Perhaps I should have,” he ground out. “From what I have heard, you have acted in your usual reckless, thoughtless manner. At least my presence could lend some respectability to your behaviour.” 

Dean clenched his hands at his sides, fighting not to plant a fist in Milton’s smug face. “Oh, of course. Because you are the feared and lauded Duke of Milton, and have been for over a decade, while I am a mere viscount who never expected to inherit. Thank you, Your Grace, for reminding me again of the _differences_ ”-- he practically spat the word in Milton’s face-- “between us.”

Milton’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you,” he said, voice silky with barely-suppressed rage, “for reminding me of that. The difference--” emphasized again-- “between us, Winchester, is that you need to have a care for your reputation if you wish to marry someday.”

Dean reeled back as though struck. “What?”

Shrugging, Milton made a show of inspecting the backs of his hands in a gesture that would have looked more at home on Balthazar. “Our betrothal, such as it is, will be coming to an end soon, will it not?” He did not allow Dean time to reply. “And you told me you still hoped to have prospects for marriage afterwards. I merely think it inadvisable to flaunt yourself so brazenly if you hope to make a genuine connection with someone in the future.”

“Flaunt myself?” Dean took two strides across the room until he was mere inches away from Milton’s face. “Of course that’s how you would see it. For your information, Milton, it is with my future prospects in mind that I have been so determinedly social these past days. If I am to find the person with whom I wish to spend the rest of my days, it won’t be by sulking alone in my grand house in the country!”

He saw the hit land, saw Milton blanch, his eyes going wide with pain, but Dean could not bring himself to stop. “And so I ask again: why do you care?”

There was a charged silence, the space of a heartbeat, Milton’s eyes locked on Dean’s with unswerving intensity before he burst out, “Because I care for you!”

Dean stumbled back. He had been braced for a blow, whether verbal or physical, but Milton’s raw confession sent him reeling. “What?” he breathed.

Milton gave a strangled laugh, covering his face with his hands. “That is what I meant to say from the beginning,” he admitted, words muffled. “I came all this way, rehearsing a speech in my mind, hoping you might feel the same, and now”-- he lifted his hands away from his face, revealing a hopeless expression-- “I’ve only alienated you further.”

Dean’s heart leaped in his chest. He knew all too well how a conversation could veer rapidly from what one anticipated, and he and Milton had always had that spark of passion between them, the one that could flare so sweetly or leave them both aching from its burns. 

If he had come all this way… if he had abandoned his carriage and ridden the last few miles even in the rain, simply because he had to see Dean, had to tell him…

Drawing in a deep breath, Dean stepped forward. “Tell me now,” he said softly, watching as a faint light of hope dawned behind Milton’s eyes. “Please.”

Milton licked his lips, and Dean held back a groan as he instinctively followed the movement with his eyes. “Winchester--” he started, but Dean quickly shook his head.

“Dean,” he said. “If you are going to tell me, tell _me_. Not my title.”

A smile flickered over Milton’s face. “Such impropriety,” he murmured. “Then it must be Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Dean said slowly, savouring the feel of it on his tongue. Yes, it suited him perfectly. 

And judging from the way Castiel drew in a sharp breath, he rather liked the sound of it on Dean’s lips.

“Dean,” he said. “I--” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, fierce and uncompromising. “I cannot pinpoint the moment it changed between us. Perhaps it was not one single incident, but all of them taken together, from the first moment I laid eyes on you in the church to the sight of you riding away from Rexford, taking my heart with you. Those days together there were--” he paused, a smile lighting his features-- “the happiest of my life.” 

Dean held himself perfectly still, barely able to breathe, as Castiel continued.

“I should have said something sooner,” he admitted. “I should have been braver. But I have never felt this way before, and it terrifies me, how much I want to be with you.” His smile turned wry. “How much I want our betrothal to be real.”

Stepping forward, he stretched out a hand. Instinctively, Dean took it, the warmth of Castiel’s palm a soothing counterpoint to the shiver that raced down Dean’s spine at his touch. 

“I know this is presumptuous of me,” he said quietly. “But perhaps you will approve of such forwardness. Let me stay in London. Let me accompany you to these parties, to these balls and these musical evenings. I can bear to watch you smile and flirt and charm the entirety of London if you but dance with me once, if I am among the many recipients of that smile. If you find yourself losing your heart to another, I will bow out gracefully, and use whatever consequence I have to ensure you and whoever is fortunate enough to receive your love are not shamed for it. But if you find your eyes straying to mine, if mine are the arms you want around you for the last waltz of the night”-- he smiled crookedly --“please, do not give up on me yet. On us.”

Dean closed his eyes. Never in his wildest dreams could he ever have imagined such a beautiful speech outside of a sentimental novel. His heart shouted at him to say yes, to allow Castiel to sweep him into his arms, but one small overheard conversation still echoed through his mind.

“What did you mean,” he asked quietly, “when you told Balthazar that we were too different?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered closed for a moment before opening again, resigned. “You heard that?”

Dean shrugged. “I was coming back to speak with you. To tell you--” He waved his hand between them. “I don’t know. That I didn’t want to leave? That I didn’t want it to end, then or ever?”

“You always were braver than I,” Castiel murmured, running his hand through his hair again. “And perhaps that is what I meant, when I said it. You are”-- he lifted his shoulders in a shrug-- “so bold, so unrestrained in everything you do. You are always so comfortable, so charming… which is not to say shallow. I know you are not. But your openness, your generosity-- I cannot find them in myself, even when I wish to.” His voice dropped. “I fear you would tire of me soon enough.”

“Never,” Dean said swiftly. He squeezed Castiel’s hand in his and gave him a brilliant grin. “You do not give yourself enough credit. Yes, you may fall back on your dignity with alarming frequency, but you have shown me enough of what lies beneath it to keep me intrigued for an eternity. And while you might say you could watch me dance and flirt with others, I am not, in fact, so generous.” He deliberately ran his thumb over Castiel’s palm, watching the way he shivered at the caress. “It rouses every smug and possessive instinct in me to know that not everyone sees this side of you. That you came swimming with me in the lake at Rexford, that you raced horses with me.” He lowered his voice, smooth and soft. “That we quite thoroughly compromised one another within not even a full day of meeting for the first time.”

Castiel gave a choked-off laugh, but his eyes sparked with desire and something more, something deeper and more delicate. 

“You make me feel like I am more than my title,” he admitted. “Like I could be valued as a man, not merely as a duke.”

“You are,” Dean insisted. He raised their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to Castiel’s knuckles. “You are so much more, and I am honoured to know it.”

There was a tense silence as Dean waited to see how Castiel would respond. He was satisfied with the explanation, with the vulnerability Castiel had displayed. Now he just needed to know if it would be enough-- if he could be bold enough to take what Dean was offering.

“You know,” Castiel said pensively, “you are wrong about one thing.”

“Oh?” Dean raised one eyebrow, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

A wicked smirk appeared on Castiel’s face, and all the blood in Dean’s body immediately raced southwards. “We were not _thoroughly_ compromised,” he whispered huskily. “We were interrupted before that word could truly be applicable.”

Dean’s mouth went dry. “You are correct,” he managed. “I misspoke.”

Castiel nodded gravely, even as his eyes swept leisurely over Dean from head to foot, lingering appreciatively over his shoulders and calves. “Shall we rectify that situation?”

Dean barely had time to gasp out “God, yes,” before Castiel’s lips were on his. He melted immediately into the embrace, slipping his hands free and twining them in Castiel’s thick dark hair. Castiel moaned against his lips and slid his mouth sideways, deepening the kiss with weeks of pent-up desire and longing. Dean matched it in kind, pouring all of his relief and joy and sheer affection into the movement, memorizing the feeling of Castiel’s lips beneath his and thrilling at the knowledge that he could have this as long as they both wanted.

Pulling away to catch his breath, Dean leaned his forehead against Castiel’s and closed his eyes. “I missed you,” he confessed, heart in his throat. “I missed you so much.”

He felt Castiel’s lips on his cheek, his jaw, his forehead, and finally, the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never hated Rexford the way I did without you in it,” he said. “You were around every corner, like a ghost. I dreamed of you every night.”

At that, Dean smiled. “Oh?” he said, trailing his lips along the sharp cut of Castiel’s jaw and watching it move under his kiss. “Good dreams, I hope?”

“Wretch,” Castiel murmured, grabbing Dean’s face and pulling him back into a deep, luxurious kiss.

Dean’s knees buckled beneath him. Laughing, he tugged Castel down until they both knelt on the soft carpet in front of the fireplace, still kissing. Dean ran his hands across the breadth of Castiel’s shoulders, feeling his muscles flex under his thin shirt, then trailed them lower until they rested in the perfect dip of his spine. Breathing heavily, Castiel cupped Dean’s cheek in one large hand and gazed steadily into his eyes. At Dean’s nod, he smiled, then reached behind himself and pulled the shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

The breath left Dean’s lungs in a rush. “You have no right,” he murmured, sliding his hands over Castiel’s shoulders to trace gently down his chest. “No right whatsoever to be so perfect.”

Catching his hand, Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean’s palm. “Perfection is a requirement for a duke, you know,” he said, never more haughty or dignified.

Startled into laughter, Dean shoved him lightly, and they fell to the carpet, limbs entwined as they kissed and laughed and kissed some more. After a few minutes of tussling, Dean found himself flat on his back with Castiel sitting up over his knees, looking down at him with such pure happiness on his face that Dean had to blink back a tear. It was the same smile he had worn when he saw Dean arriving at Rexford, the one he thought he might never see again.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said softly,

“Hello, Castiel,” he replied. 

Castiel toyed with the hem of Dean’s shirt, a silent question in his eyes. Dean nodded, and torturously slow, Castiel pulled it up over his head and tossed it carelessly aside.

Dean exhaled slowly as Castiel’s eyes roamed over his bare chest, the heat of his gaze leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “I wanted to touch you like this, that day at the lake,” he said. “You have no idea how badly.”

Grinning up at him, Dean said, “Well, some idea.”

Leaning down, Castiel pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest. “Then let me paint you a fuller picture.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed as Castiel’s lips moved in a gentle pattern over his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, back to the centre of his chest and over again. “Castiel,” he moaned, reaching up to bury his hands in those soft locks once again. “Please.”

“Tell me,” Castiel whispered, an echo of Dean’s earlier words. Brushing a hand lightly over Dean’s nipple, he smiled at Dean’s whimper. “Is this what you want?”

Another wordless plea escaped Dean’s lips, and Castiel moved his head to the side, flicking his tongue over one nipple and then the other. Dean writhed below him, heedless of how undignified he must look. He could feel Castiel’s hard length pressing against his leg and rested comfortably in the knowledge that they were equally affected. 

And in that spirit-- Dean slid his hands down Castiel’s bare back, but did not stop at his waist. He cupped that glorious backside in both hands and squeezed it gently, feeling Castiel buck against him as he did. “I want you,” he murmured, squeezing again just to hear the soft noise Castiel let out. “I want you so much.”

Castiel raised his head from Dean’s chest and looked down at him, eyes dark with desire. “Then you shall have me,” he said. “But--” He looked down, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “I did not expect to find ourselves in this situation.”

He looked so adorable that Dean simply had to kiss him. Then, reluctantly, he pulled away and crossed the room to the table. Opening a small drawer on its side, he withdrew a small bottle of oil and presented it smugly to Castiel.

“You keep that in your library?” he asked, more amused than judgmental.

“Not always,” Dean said with a shrug. “But I was planning on spending a relaxing evening alone. I thought perhaps I might”-- he paused, trailing one hand down his own chest-- “find pleasure in my own company.”

Castiel let out a sound that could only be called a growl. “Someday,” he said roughly, “you will do so in my presence.”

Dean thrilled at the heat in his voice even as he tilted his head at a decidedly coquettish angle. “Is that an order, Your Grace?”

Slowly, Castiel shook his head. “No,” he said. “A most humble request.”

Sinking back to his knees, Dean offered him the bottle. “Then someday, I shall be happy to grant it.”

“But not tonight,” Castiel said, a hint of a question in his voice.

“Not tonight,” Dean confirmed. “Tonight--” his voice shook ever so slightly-- “I want you inside of me, not my own fingers.”

A shudder racked Castiel’s entire body, but his hands were steady as he guided Dean down onto the carpet and stretched over him. “My beautiful, bold Dean,” he whispered, kissing first one cheek and then the other. “You inspire me.”

“I don’t want you to be inspired, I want you to fuck me,” Dean shot back, shifting his hips restlessly.

A decidedly rakish grin spread over Castiel’s face. “Very well. May I dispense with these unnecessary impediments to doing just that?” He gestured to their breeches. 

“Please,” Dean said fervently.

In a flash, they were both naked. Dean had little chance to admire the thick muscles of Castiel’s thighs or the sharp cut of his hips before Castiel settled between his legs, gently nudging them wider apart as he gazed hungrily down at his face. 

Maintaining eye contact, Castiel poured the oil over his fingers. Dean tensed slightly as Castiel caressed his hip with his other thumb, relaxing under the repetitive motion. “You’re impossibly lovely,” Castiel said, and slid one oiled finger inside him.

Dean gasped with pleasure, reaching up to grip Castiel’s arm. He dug his nails into his straining bicep as Castiel slowly withdrew his finger, then slid it forward again, watching his face all the while. 

“More,” Dean demanded. He knew his body, knew his own limits. He knew Castiel would never hurt him. But he needed to feel that slight burn, to be swept away entirely, to give himself over entirely to this man and the feelings he evoked in Dean.

Obligingly, Castiel slid a second finger inside him, nudging Dean into a kiss as he did. 

His hands were larger than Dean’s, his fingers longer. He felt so good, so right inside of him, and he moved those dexterous digits with practiced ease that soon had him nudging Dean’s most sensitive spot. Dean bit down on his lower lip to hold back a cry of pleasure, and Castiel shook his head fiercely. “Don’t,” he said. “Let me hear you.”

He moved his fingers again, and this time Dean let himself go. He moaned aloud as he twisted beneath Castiel, already needing more. Every nerve in his body was alight, sparks racing through his veins to concentrate at the place Castiel’s fingers moved inside of him. 

Through the haze of his own pleasure, Dean realized he had once again been unforgivably rude, leaving Castiel untouched so long. Sliding his hand down Castiel’s arm, he brushed his hand against his torso, eyes flickering up to Castiel’s face. 

His eyes were wide, his lips parted, swollen from their kisses. “Can I touch you?” Dean asked. Pleaded, more like. 

“God, yes,” Castiel said, fingers stilling inside of Dean but not withdrawing. 

Encouraged, Dean ran his hand ever so lightly over Castiel’s cock. He was gorgeously thick, impossibly hard, and silky soft under Dean’s questing touch. He groaned aloud as Dean wrapped him a loose grip, sliding his hand back and forth, aided by the wetness that sprang from his tip. 

Once Castiel adjusted, he began to move his own hand again, their gazes locked as they twisted and crooked and brought each other wicked, delicious delights. Sweat ran in beads down Castiel’s temples, a flush starting at his cheeks and running all the way down his chest. He looked decadent, debauched, and decidedly un-ducal. This was Castiel, stripped bare. And all for Dean.

His desire turned desperate, and with his free hand, Dean fumbled for the bottle of oil. “Now,” he said roughly, shoving it towards Castiel.

“You do it,” he replied, nodding towards his groin. “I want to feel you a moment longer.” He moved his fingers again, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through Dean.

With trembling hands, Dean unstoppered the bottle and poured a measure of oil over his hand. Meeting Castiel’s eyes, he wrapped it around Castiel’s erection more more, spreading it slowly and thoroughly over his straining length. Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut, a hum of pleasure falling from his lips. After a moment, he lightly circled Dean’s wrist with his free hand and pulled him away.

“You’re certain?” he asked, eyes solemn as he looked down into his face. 

“More certain than I have ever been,” Dean promised.

A brilliant smile stole over Castiel’s face, and as Dean tilted his face up for a kiss, Castiel slid easily inside him.

Dean let out a gasp that was swallowed by the press of Castiel’s mouth against his. He felt so full, so perfectly stretched, his body singing with pleasure. He felt Castiel withdraw, then thrust forward again until he was fully seated within Dean’s body. “I’m afraid I won’t last long,” he said with a shaky laugh.

Sliding his hands down to rest at Castiel’s hips, Dean pulled him closer. “Then make your time count,” he suggested, nipping at Castiel’s ear.

And he did. Castiel moved with a rhythm that left Dean breathless, deep and steady thrusts that seemed to reach beyond Dean’s body and into his very soul. His eyes never strayed from Dean’s face, not until Dean, feeling his own climax approaching with rapid inevitability, wrapped his own oiled hand around his cock, stroking it in time with Castiel’s thrusts.

“Yes,” Castiel whispered. “Just like that. You are so gorgeous, I--” 

He groaned, his rhythm slipping. Dean clenched around him and smiled in satisfaction as Castiel’s hips jerked forward unconsciously. “I want to feel it,” he coaxed, hearing the roughness of his own voice. “I want to feel you tomorrow, the day after, the rest of my life.”

With a muffled curse, Castiel came, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside Dean. Watching the way his features lit up with his release, Dean knew he was not far behind, and when Castiel shuddered and gave one last thrust into him, Dean was lost.

His climax swept through him with the force of a summer storm, and in its wake, Dean felt renewed. Castiel slumped forward against him, heedless of the mess on Dean’s torso, and rubbed his cheek against Dean’s like some sort of overgrown cat.

Stifling a laugh, Dean combed his fingers through Castiel’s hair, half expecting him to start purring. He let his own eyes slip closed, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through his body, and listened to the rain beat against the windows as his heart rate slowly settled.

After a moment, Castiel raised his head to look into Dean’s face. His lips quirked in a smile, which Dean returned, before he asked, “How do you feel?”

Dean pursed his lips, watching as Castiel tracked the movement, and after a moment of consideration, declared, “Compromised.”

A delighted grin spread over Castiel’s face, and he leaned forward to kiss the tip of Dean’s nose. “Thoroughly so?”

“Mmn.” Dean wiggled beneath him, loving the way it made Castiel catch his breath despite the fact that he was softening inside Dean’s body. “Yes. Quite thoroughly compromised indeed.”

“Good,” Castiel said, laughing, as he moved his lips down to meet Dean’s. “So do I.”


	12. Chapter 12

Two weeks passed in a blissful haze. Castiel took up residence at Milton House once more, to the delight of his mother and sisters, but spent most of his nights with Dean. The staff at Winchester House were fiercely loyal to him, and soon became accustomed to having Castiel appear at all hours of the night. Sam pretended outrage at first, but beamed at Castiel whenever he could catch his eye, clearly noting the change in Dean’s disposition and welcoming it. 

They attended a number of entertainments, and as expected, danced and dined and laughed with others, but it was repeated at the end of each such night that never had there been a more devoted betrothed couple than the Duke of Milton and Viscount Winchester. London was positively entranced with them, only making them more popular, but every time a new partner claimed Dean’s hand for a dance, Castiel knew Dean would be winking at him the next time their eyes met.

Everything was perfect-- except for the small matter of their future.

They had agreed not to end the betrothal straight away, but they had not fully discussed the transition from being engaged to being wed. In fact, Castiel was unclear if that was what Dean even wanted. They had established that they cared for one another, that they wanted to continue to be together, but no date had been set for their wedding and Castiel was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

He supposed he could simply ask Dean. Confronting their issues had, after some initial twists and turns, worked out well for them the last time. He was unsure, however, if he had the courage to raise the matter. Unlike before, when they had been apart and miserable, they were now together and happy-- did he dare risk upsetting the wonderful new rapport between them?

The thoughts ran through Castiel’s mind as the carriage clattered along the streets towards Winchester House. It was late, and they were returning from a musical evening at an acquaintance of his mother’s. It had been pleasant enough, but Castiel thought Dean more talented than any of the fresh-faced young things who had been selected to perform, and told him so quite boldly. 

Dean smiled at that, rolling his eyes, but he kissed Castiel with a lingering sweetness that made his heart tighten in his chest.

“Are you staying?” he asked softly as the carriage drew to a halt.

Castiel tilted his head to the side, enjoying the way the shadows cast Dean’s cheekbones into prominence, the way the light from the house spilled into the carriage to reflect in his green eyes. “Do you want me to?”

“Always,” Dean replied, and that was answer enough.

They made their way up the stairs, stopping to kiss only every other step. Dean giggled and Castiel hushed him helplessly, but was soon caught in laughter of his own as Dean prodded him in the ribs and pulled him towards his chamber. 

They collapsed onto the bed together, limbs entwining naturally as their kisses deepened. Castiel surrendered himself to the feeling of Dean’s hands running up and down his back, occasionally darting lower to cup his backside before teasingly moving away. Over the past two weeks, Castiel had learned a great deal about what brought Dean pleasure, and a surprising amount about his own. 

Taking those lessons into consideration, he rolled to straddle Dean and removed his shirt, then nudged Dean’s arms above his head and lightly circled his wrists with his hands. Dean’s breath caught in his throat and he grinned cheekily up at Castiel, wriggling his hips in a most delicious manner. “Yes, please,” he murmured. “But I’d suggest you let me go for a moment so we can remove some of these clothes first.”

Castiel sighed and released him. “Oh, very well.”

An instant later, Dean’s cravat hit him in the face. Sputtering, Castiel peeled it away and laughed helplessly at Dean’s smug expression. “Right,” he said. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

He never knew there could be so much laughter during sex. So much joy that transcended the physical sensations-- not that those were anything short of magnificent. But as they bickered and teased and slowly undressed, kissing and touching all the while, Castiel knew it had never been like this with anyone else, and he began to suspect he knew why.

Eventually, he found himself braced above Dean’s body, Dean’s hands now free and resting lightly at his hips as Castiel sank down slowly onto his cock. Shuddering at the feeling of being stretched so wide, Castiel’s eyes slipped closed, but Dean traced lazy circles over his hipbone and said, “Look at me.”

Opening his eyes, Castiel did. He kept his gaze locked on Dean’s as he began to move, lifting himself up and then back down, seating himself more fully each time. Dean groaned beneath him and tightened his grip to support Castiel’s movements, and the room soon echoed with their harsh breathing as sweat trickled down Castiel’s back and his hips began to stutter.

One of Dean’s hands slid down to wrap around Castiel’s cock, stroking him gently as Castiel rode him harder and faster until sparks exploded behind his eyes and he came with an intensity that rattled him to his core. A heartbeat later, Dean followed him, and it was only then that they broke eye contact as Dean bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes with the force of his climax.

After Castiel cleaned them both up, he curled back into the bed and rested his head on Dean’s bare chest as Dean idly ran his fingers through Castiel’s hair. It was perfect, peaceful and quiet, but something had shifted in Castiel and he could keep silent no longer.

Sitting up, he took Dean’s hand in both of his own and clasped it tightly. “Dean,” he began, taking a deep breath to steady himself, “there’s something I need to ask you.”

“If it’s for another round, you’ll have to give me a few more minutes, but then I’d be happy to oblige you.”

Laughing, Castiel pressed a kiss to the tip of Dean’s nose. “No. It’s not that.” 

A slight frown creased Dean’s forehead. “Then what is it?”

Castiel drew strength from the stillness of Dean’s body, the affection in his gaze. “Something I have asked you before,” he murmured, “but that bears repeating.”

He saw the light of understanding dawn in Dean’s eyes, saw his lips part softly and his eyes widen with anticipation.

Raising their joined hands, Castiel pressed them to his heart. “Dean Campbell, will you marry me?”

Dean’s answering smile lit up the dark room and chased away any last shadow of doubt that lingered in Castiel’s heart. “Castiel Allen, you romantic fool,” he replied, shaking his head softly. “Of course I will.”

Castiel blinked at him. Somehow, it seemed too simple. But then his happiness caught up to him and he threw his head back and laughed in triumph before Dean surged up to capture his lips in a kiss. “I love you,” Dean whispered as they pulled apart. “I always knew I would marry for love and nothing less, and I love you, Castiel.”

Reaching out, Castiel cupped his cheek in a trembling hand. “I love you too,” he said. “So much. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” A wild idea crossed his mind and he grinned, buoyed by his impossible joy. “Let’s run away. To Rexford, or somewhere else entirely. Scotland, for all I care. I can acquire a special license. We can be wed in two days.”

Laughing, Dean shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Castiel repeated, frowning. “I thought you would enjoy thumbing your nose at society’s expectations.”

“I do,” Dean said swiftly. “Most of the time. And I adore you for even suggesting such a madcap scheme. But--” he shrugged, a distracting movement considering they were both still naked-- “in this instance, I want to do things properly. I want to marry you at St. George’s in front of both our families and all our friends. I want all of London to see how happy we are.” A smirk hovered at the corner of his mouth. “I want them to watch in envy as I marry the most handsome man in the country.”

“I rather think that’s you,” Castiel muttered, but he felt his cheeks flush at the compliment. 

“I can be patient a little longer,” Dean said softly. “For you.” His smirk turned into a wide grin. “Besides, we’ve already anticipated our wedding night, so there’s no rush on that account.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel leaned down to kiss him. “You make a compelling argument. Very well, we shall do this properly.”

“And now that that’s settled-”-- one of Dean’s hands stole slyly up over Castiel’s thigh, his intent unmistakeable-- “I think I’m ready for that second round.”

***

Castiel Allen, Duke of Milton, last laid eyes on Dean Campbell, Viscount Winchester, on the morning of the wedding.

While Dean would retain his title, they had decided to combine their names following their official union. From this day forth, they would both bear the name Campbell-Allen, and any children of theirs would follow suit. 

The business of inheritance could be complicated when two titled persons chose to wed, but it was far from unprecedented. Castiel had no doubt they would resolve the matter in a satisfying manner, though likely after a passionate argument. He smiled to himself, remembering Jody’s prediction that they would have a tempestuous marriage.

He would not have wished for anything less.

Dean looked more beautiful than Castiel had ever seen him, in a moss green coat and tan trousers, his mother’s emerald cravat pin glistening from the snowy folds of fabric at his throat. The gem could not compare to the colour of his eyes, and Castiel leaned in to whisper just that as the clergyman began his address. Dean flushed a pretty shade of pink and reached down to squeeze Castiel’s hand. He did not need to return the compliment in so many words-- the look in his eyes spoke loudly enough.

The ceremony passed in something of a blur, and soon enough they were pronounced wed. Dean tossed him a brilliant grin and swept Castiel up in his arms, kissing him deeply as the crowd broke into rapturous applause. “Well, husband,” Dean murmured as he drew back. “Now it is done.”

“Properly so,” Castiel replied. “But I fear it will not be _thoroughly_ so until much later tonight.”

Dean’s eyes went dark at his suggestive tone. “Then let us proceed to sign the register and bring ourselves one step closer to that blissful state.”

All the legalities observed, they departed the church in Castiel’s carriage, waving to the crowd gathered outside. The wedding breakfast was being held at Milton House, jointly organized by their mothers, and as much as Castiel longed to be alone with Dean, he could not deny the wave of contentment that swept through him as he greeted all the guests who spilled into his home to wish them well. 

Sam was there, of course, along with Kevin Tran, both of whom were currently taking orders from Mrs. Mills, fetching chairs and assisting elderly guests as needed. “You know we have footmen for this sort of thing,” Castiel told her, amused. 

“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Mills replied, eyes twinkling. “But it does the boys good to feel useful at these sorts of things, and keeps them out of other troublesome situations.”

Laughing, Castiel made her a low bow and nudged her towards the table. “Sit. Enjoy. It’s not every day your son gets married, you know.”

“I know.” She gave him a wistful smile. “I just keep wishing my wife could have been here to see it.”

Dean planted a kiss on her cheek as he stole up behind her. “She’s with us in our hearts,” he said quietly, passing a light fingertip over his cravat pin. “And I like to think she’s happy for me.”

Mrs. Mills gave a fierce nod and pulled Dean into an embrace. “Of course she is, you scamp. Now why don’t you and your husband escort me to my seat?”

Smiling at Dean over her head, Castiel drew his arm through hers and did just that. 

Her seat was close to Dean’s, at one end of the table, while Castiel’s was at the other. With a wry smile, he left his new husband there as well. How strange that they should immediately be expected to separate themselves after joining so publicly. But he could still see Dean, could still catch his wink and discreetly blown kiss, and rest assured in the knowledge that soon enough, nothing could keep them apart.

A familiar whistle pierced his ear and Castiel twisted in his seat to find Balthazar grinning down at him, Benny just a step behind. “I see you took my advice,” Balthazar drawled, settling into his seat. “I always did have to lead by example, didn’t I?”

Castiel rolled his eyes but reached out to squeeze his shoulder affectionately. “Apparently so. Who knew you invented the concept of marital bliss?”

“Invented it, no,” Benny said, casting a fond look at Balthazar. “But redefined it, yes. Just as you and Dean will.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast, and Castiel copied his movement, moved by his simple speech.

There was a slight commotion at the door, and Castiel looked over just in time to see a familiar figure enter the room and barrel directly towards him. “I’m sorry I missed it,” Anna said in a rush. “I intended to set out from Rexford earlier, but--” She trailed off, flushing. “I was delayed,” she finished.

Castiel rather suspected he knew why. Taking her hand in his, he guided her to a seat on the other side of Balthazar. “You’re here now,” he whispered, and when she smiled gratefully up at him, he knew all would be well.

Midway through the meal, his mother rose to her feet and raised her glass. Catching an inquisitive look from Anna, Castiel shrugged. It was customary for family members to make a toast to the newlyweds, but he hadn’t expected it of his mother.

“Thank you all for joining us here today,” she began. “It is an honour and a pleasure to celebrate my son’s marriage to a fine young man with you all.” She paused as a light round of applause broke out. “As you know, before today I had only the one son.” Her eyes rested on Castiel briefly, and he was surprised to see the depth of emotion in her gaze. “He has always commanded respect from those around him, and I am proud to have raised such a strong and dutiful man, even after his father’s passing.” 

Castiel swallowed roughly as she continued. “My son has always taken his position as Duke of Milton seriously. Marriage, as we know, is one of the responsibilities of a peer of the realm. But it is not in the name of responsibility that this wedding has come to pass.” A slight smile lit her face as she inclined her head towards Dean. “Simply put, my son and his new husband fell in love. I have watched it change him, watched him become better for it, and for that, I will always be grateful to Lord Winchester.” Her smile grew, and Dean pressed a hand to his heart as he smiled back at her. “Today I have gained a new son, and my daughters a new brother. I have gained a new friend.” She smiled at Mrs. Mills, who winked in reply. “And the world has gained a new family to reckon with. Please join me in toasting to the Campbell-Allens. May they find happiness today and all their days.”

As the room erupted into cheers and applause, Castiel sat stunned, a tear trickling slowly down his cheek. He had never witnessed his mother so demonstrative, especially not in front of such a large crowd. Catching her eye, he managed a tremulous smile, and she smiled back at him, composed and content. 

And then Dean was there, pulling him up into a kiss, and Castiel’s world snapped into focus once more. He returned the kiss, much to the delight of their guests, and kept his hand in Dean’s for the remainder of the event.

***

They had decided to depart for Rexford immediately following the wedding breakfast. It would be a long day of travel, but they had both agreed they wanted to spend their first night as a married couple in the house that had truly played host to their blossoming romance. They both dozed in the carriage, soothed by the rocking motions as they travelled, and it was dark by the time Castiel heard the squeak of a familiar gate opening.

The lanterns lit the steps up to the house, and he could see the servants assembled to greet them. Reaching over, he gently pressed a kiss to the top of Dean’s head to wake him. “We’re here,” he whispered. “Do you want me to carry you in?”

Dean’s eyes shot open, and though he scowled at first, it quickly morphed into a grin. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he protested. “Merely resting my eyes.”

“Mmn-hmn,” Castiel replied, unconvinced. The carriage was rolling down the drive, slowing to a halt as they approached the house. “Are you certain you’re going to be awake enough to do our wedding night proper justice?”

He saw the spark in Dean’s eyes, but he was still caught by surprise as Dean sat upright, grinned at him, then launched himself out of the still-moving carriage. “Catch me and find out!” he called over his shoulder as he took off for the house at a run.

Castiel remained frozen in place, stunned, until his body caught up with his brain and he threw himself out of the carriage and into pursuit. 

His legs protested after being cramped up in the carriage all day, but he raced after Dean as quickly as he could, ignoring the startled looks from the servants as he shot past them and into the house. Dean was already on the stairs, taking them two at a time and laughing all the while. Castiel grinned to himself and followed, closing the distance between them.

Dean ran towards the end of the hall, but he slowed as he glanced into every room he passed. Here, Castiel had familiarity on his side. He caught up to Dean just as the corridor branched, crowding him up against the wall and catching his chin in his hand.

“This house is too bloody big,” Dean complained. “How the hell am I supposed to find your bedchamber among all these rooms?”

Castiel lowered his head and kissed him soundly. “You’re supposed to let me lead you to it,” he replied.

Dean let out a derisive snort. “Unlikely.”

“Besides,” Castiel continued, trailing a line of kisses down Dean’s neck and feeling him shiver under the caress, “it’s our bedchamber now, and if you don’t like it, you ought to be glad there are so many more to choose from.”

“Hmn,” Dean said, tilting his head to allow Castiel better access. “I suppose we’ll have to test them all to determine which is the most comfortable, won’t we?”

Castiel grinned and nipped lightly at the place where Dean’s jaw met his neck. “It might take some time.”

“We have an eternity,” Dean reminded him, and dragged him into a kiss that seemed to last just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> While writing this, my brain wandered down a few side-paths, namely focused on Benny/Balthazar and Anna and her dark-haired lady (can you guess who she might be?). I really hope to write those stories one day, but my time and energy are sadly lacking right now, so I make no promises.... but if I do, rest assured Dean and Cas will make cameo appearances! 
> 
> Keep an eye on this collection for more SPN Regency goodness headed your way! And don't forget to leave some love for NotFunnyDean's amazing artwork [here!](https://notfunnydean.tumblr.com/post/628429556177666048/art-masterpost-spn-regency-bb)


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